Other Side of Nothing
by silvereyedbitch
Summary: Post Reichenbach Fall. John is having difficulty adjusting to the idea of Sherlock's death. He drifts listlessly and eventually decides on texting his dead friend's phone as a means of coping with the dangerous thoughts that eventually enter his mind. J&S. M/M. Suicidal ideations.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters; I just like to have fun with them.

Summary/Warnings: Post Reichenbach Fall. John is having difficulty adjusting to the idea of Sherlock's death. He drifts listlessly and eventually decides on texting his dead friend's phone as a means of coping with the dangerous thoughts that eventually enter his mind. J&S. M/M. Suicidal ideations.

A/N: Let me know if it sounds like a story worth pursuing!

**Other Side of Nothing**

The most exquisite pain, the kind of legend, that endures unto the death of the afflicted individual, is almost never physical in nature. Nay, it is the culmination of strong emotional ties, often thought to be unassailable, which are ripped suddenly from the roots, leaving naught but an emptiness that nothing as yet acknowledged by man has been known to fill. It is born of the spirit, grown in the mind, and yet comes to live in the heart. And so while both the spirit and mind may grieve the loss, it is the heart that truly suffers. Laid bare, it is emptied of all that once made it whole. Connections dissolve, dissipate, and finally fly free of the body as ashes dispersed by the lightest of breezes. The same could be said of the owner of the heart, feeling adrift in a world that moves on without them.

How to survive then? There are many opinions on this subject alone, but in the end it is a very personal and private decision; though time is, some will say, the best means. But some method must eventually be chosen. Some course of action to stem the tide of self-destructive habits that may result of such loss. And thus, John Watson did find himself staring down at his best friend's grave, trying to summon the words he needed to have said while the other man still lived. He was at the tipping point, not having actually cried yet. He had been in shock the day of the fall, and ever since then if truth be told. Only today, as he had approached the solemn little plot with Mrs. Hudson, had he begun to feel the engulfing darkness that lapped at the edges of his mind.

Now, with Mrs. Hudson retreated to the edge of the cemetery, he felt…loss, crushing sadness, and…something else terrifying that had no name. It was like a fear of losing _himself_ with Sherlock's death. It made no sense, but there it was. And here he stood, once again trying to be the brave soldier. And losing. He spoke to his friend, words meant to be heard by living ears. And he asked for a miracle…_please_, just give him this miracle! But the only reply received was a faint rustling of wind through the leaves and scattered birdsong in the distance. He turned smartly and strode away when it was clear no answer would be forthcoming. And as he crossed the grassy expanse, he comforted himself with thoughts of eventually seeing Sherlock again in the Everafter; thoughts such as these were often used as a salve for the soul's hurt. But in his case, they didn't soothe, not at all. Realizing that he had to wait his whole life to see Sherlock again was numbing with its imposed distance. And suddenly, the rest of his life seemed far too long… Best to think of nothing for now then. Easier said than done, though…

How would it be with no consulting detective dragging him off to midnight adventures and danger? No tall, pale flatmate to leave him completely at a loss by the sheer number of body parts that could fit inside of a quart-sized Ziploc bag? No one to traipse over the coffee table and all of its assorted items? No waking to violin in the early morning hours? His thoughts continued on through many of the detective's other quirky behaviors that most other people (more probably ALL other people) would find abhorrent in a flatmate. But not John. No. He would miss them. Every one of them. Even finding himself woken at two in the morning to discover his foot in Sherlock's hands as the other man clipped his toenails and collected them, stating that there weren't enough of his own to provide a solid comparison for one of his various experiments. Yes, he'd even miss that.

The ride back to Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson was a blip on his memory. He was in the cemetery one moment, then home in the next, then standing in the empty flat. His heart beat a horrible cadence. Alone. Alone. ALONE. And he felt it coming. Finally. There had almost been tears at the graveside. But here and now, they were finally going to make an appearance. It was almost as a sense of foreboding that they approached him. And he prepared himself accordingly. First sitting in his chair, the better to view Sherlock's empty one. Second, breathing deeply in anticipation. He felt ready to face this. Steady. But as the first blurring of his vision came on, and the initial sob shook him, he suddenly needed something to hold on to. And so he slid down and forward onto his knees in front of Sherlock's chair, placing his hands to either side of it, stroking the material as if it belonged to something else, someone else.

Tears ran in rivulets from eyes that had seen too much. Closing them did nothing but replay the moment of loss over and over. Seeking a flaw. Seeking a lie. Seeking hope. Finding none. And he stayed in this position for a long while, far past when the tears ran dry, and his vision stopped seeing the flat in front of him. He refocused his mind on better times. Times before the fall. And his eyes began to perceive only times past, running through the streets of London in pursuit of various people and items. Lengthy discussions on the merit of anything from genetics to styrofoam containers made him smile. For a short time anyway. Reality was slow to return, but it did, stealing away all of the regained joy of his reminiscences.

He sat up straight, with a sharp intake of breath, realizing just how pathetic he was at this moment. How did Sherlock ever do it? Subdue emotions? Sentiment? Consciously, John understood that his friend _did_ register emotions; he simply didn't express them as everyone else did. But John found himself envious of his friend's dispassionate methods; wishing for his own machine-like persona. So much easier than this state he had been reduced to. Small. Weak. Hurting. And for no clear reasoning!

Sherlock would never have done this, this, _thing_ had he not been forced to. The problem was that there was no way to discern the events that had taken place on that rooftop. Blood that didn't belong to the consulting detective had been found, but it had no hits in the police databank as to who the owner was. Nothing about that scenario made much sense. And that, THAT, was the crux of the matter. Surely there was no way that Sherlock had ever doubted that John believed in him? He had thought he'd made that perfectly clear to the other man prior to their earlier attempted arrest. But it dug in him that his last real conversation with the dark haired man had been an argument. And then when they spoke again… He replayed that conversation over and over in his head. Had Sherlock been trying to tell him something? Had it really just been his "suicide note" as the other man had stated? Hindsight here was NOT 20/20. It simply led to more and more elaborate explanations and imaginings. And he was sick. Of. It.

The next 3 weeks flew by in a blur. He left the flat maybe twice. The first time to attempt returning to work. The second to hand in the resignation of his position just scant days after returning. The clinic instead gave him a kind of bereavement leave, in case he changed his mind in the next few weeks. He thought it unlikely, but appreciated their kindness. The subject of his meager pension income was solved by Mrs. Hudson, who told John to stay in the flat as long as he liked for a much reduced rent. She couldn't bear parting with him, too, yet, she had cried. John had nodded his thanks and retreated to the flat, where he had moldered for two weeks straight, barely eating. And there was no way to determine whether or not he got enough sleep, as his waking world seemed to blend with his sleeping one.

Each day began the same. John looked over at the empty chair across from him…for hours. Thinking of the fall and all of the events leading up to it, seeking, searching, failing. Eventually, he showered. Sometimes, he crossed through the kitchen as if to make tea. But he generally detoured back to the armchair before quite getting there. Then he stared some more, eventually moving to the couch to peer from a different angle. Sometimes he crossed in front of the window and glanced outward, taking no real notice of the life and world passing him by as his little encapsulated bubble continued to sustain him. From the couch, he would try to recreate memories, sometimes closing his eyes, most times not needing to.

He could see them now, as he and Sherlock had returned one day from a case. The way the taller man unraveled his scarf and slung it over the back of the door and then slid silkenly out of his coat. How he strode around the flat going on about further details that no one but he would ever notice or appreciate. But John did. Then, when finally his voice had wound down, he would flop into his chair with a smirky smile and accept a cup of tea from John, who would surreptitiously settle a few biscuits with it, knowing that now was the time to get the thin figure to eat. He was least likely to refuse food just after a case. Sherlock needed keeping. A thankless job at most times, and one that no one in their right mind would accept. But John did.

He would end his couch-side reverie by moving back to the chair and picturing what the future would hold for him. And there he would be stuck until the next morning, his mind blank. No future seemed forthcoming as of yet. And so he washed, rinsed, repeated. Day in and day out. Mrs. Hudson started bringing small finger foods by the third day. Leaving the trays in easy to reach places for him. And for his part, he only noted her presence about half of the time, lost in the remembrances of his own mental prison. She did note, however, that occasionally there were small portions of the food missing, so she chose not to worry overly much yet. He was thinner, and a bit pale and wan, but she expected these things of those in deep grief. Time would tell, she would think to herself. And time…passed.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John found himself one evening returning to the conscious world from a memory of bittersweet laughter. For the first time in a great while, his eyes shown an intelligent perception behind them, a comprehension of time and the world it flowed around and through. He pushed up from his chair, taking in the whole of the room before walking to the door to head for his room. He was just beginning to realize how far gone he had been these weeks after, but he wasn't quite ready to face it. So he chose to change the routine at least by lying in his own bed and actually closing his eyes and sleeping in the conventional manner.

He dressed in loose cotton pajama pants and crawled beneath the covers and sheets. It did feel good to finally lie down to rest. And then he sat up and reached over to where his jeans were casually thrown to the floor, pulling out his mobile to plug into the charger on the bedstand. As he connected the wire, a thought ran through his mind, and he almost dismissed it immediately, setting the phone down on the little table. Then he lay back and stared at it, pondering something over in his mind. But after a minute or so, he seemed to reach the conclusion of some internal struggle, letting out a conciliatory "hmph" as he rolled toward the phone again. He reached his hand out and hovered it over the device, as if still battling within himself. Then he quickly swiped it and turned the face on.

He opened the messages section, gazing at the last texts exchanged between him and Sherlock. He hit the new message command, and the screen popped up, ready, blank, waiting. The cursor blinked on the screen, mocking him with its rhythm. Then he typed in a text quickly, before he could change his mind, and hit send, heart pounding. He blinked. And surprisingly, he felt good. Kind of lighter, actually. As though he had truly been able to communicate something to the person on the other side of nothing. He smiled at the thought, thinking it quite poetic of himself. And then he switched off the light as his message to Sherlock flitted before his eyes.

_I still believe in you. –JW _

E/N: So, is it interesting in the least? Should I continue? Should I drop it and assume another plotline?


	2. Chapter 2

It began as just the one. The single text. Initiated on a whim, but the resultant sensation of buoyancy caused John to rethink it altogether. It was like having a direct line of communication with the deceased; who of course couldn't respond, but still. In the scenario of his imagining, texts sent would be read but couldn't be answered. Yes. It was perfect. Much better than speaking at a lonely graveside where others would _know_ of his loss. When you visited a cemetery, people always gave you _that look_; the one that bespoke sympathy and sorrow. How much better would it be to simply be seen texting? Then people wouldn't think on it at all. And if they _did_ ask, he could just say, "Oh, sorry, I was just messaging a friend." Because he was. Only that friend couldn't answer. And wouldn't it be nice to finally be the one to always have the last word with Sherlock? Imagine, he could say anything he wanted, and the other man could do nothing in response!

And so the first text had been sent that night. And slowly, over the next few days, he texted again and again. Small thoughts, memories that came to him, things that pissed him off. They all got sent out into the ether. And each one felt like a step in the right direction. After a few weeks, he actually began to contemplate returning to the clinic. The flat was in its original semi-organized state again, and he didn't need Mrs. Hudson to leave food trays out anymore because he managed to fix his own now. He even began doing the shopping again, which pleased the distraught landlady to no end. She had worried about him so, and truly wanted to help, but she wasn't as young as she used to be, and the extra chores, cooking, and shopping had worn her down.

John began to take long walks in order to get outside more often, stretch his legs, and work out the stiffness that kept threatening to return in the bad one. He saw it as an insult to Sherlock's memory that he had become so despondent and wretched, and so he wanted to prove his resolve at living life to the man's ever present spirit. So if people thought it odd to see a man with an almost-limp striding his way through weather fair and foul, he didn't care. It only made him stronger in spirit to endure the bad with the good.

It was one of the "bad" walks that he found himself on today. The air was frigid, with a mist hanging about that clung to everything, making it impossible to wring the damp out of yourself. He ducked his head further into the collar of his coat and thought about the clinic and how he might go this next week to see if they still had an opening for him…and he saw it. _Talldarkcloakflappinginthecoldwinddarkhairedheadduckedlowtoturnquicklyaroundacorner_ registered to his subconscious, and he had turned his head to look before it truly even translated to full meaning in his mind. His body's response had a wave of adrenaline burst through him, as though someone had just jumped out of nowhere to frighten him. But as his eyes focused on the spot where the aberrancy had been perceived….nothing there. Now. But was there ever? He walked on, shaking his head and thinking maybe he didn't actually need to be out any longer in this weather after all.

He arrived back at the flat thinking of Anderson of all people. So adamant that Sherlock is still alive out there somewhere. That he just pulled an elaborate prank on the world. Yeah, Anderson was a bit of a nutter now. But wouldn't that be just like Sherlock? Thumbing his nose at the world and then haring off on his own? He could see how easy it would be to succumb to Anderson's line of thinking, and he pitied the man for it. John had originally hated the man, and also Sgt. Donavon. However, Anderson was becoming such a conspiracy theorist that he had actually been suspended from his position in the week or so after. Convinced that his pursuit of Holmes's damaged integrity was a major cause for the consulting detective's resultant suicide, he had sought evidence to the contrary as his way of making amends for an unforgivable offense. In the middle of it all, he had latched onto the idea that now seemed to occupy his every thought. That Sherlock Holmes was alive and would return once his name was cleared.

John shook his head. To see the state of the man now, one just couldn't remain angry. He was pathetic really, body lank with eyes fever-bright in their hysteria. But hey, maybe he _would_ actually end up helping to clear Sherlock's name. He may go off the deep end when no living detective presents himself afterward, but at least _some_ positive would come of it. John sighed. The problem was, with Sherlock you never did know quite what to believe. He wondered if he truly would be surprised if he came home one day to find the dark haired man sitting atop his armchair or impatiently pacing the room. He probably wouldn't even acknowledge that he'd been gone at all, knowing him. He'd just give John a steady look, then a slight smirk before continuing on with whatever else had his mind occupied for the time.

_No_, John thought to himself. _No, I might not be as surprised as with anyone else who chose to return from the dead, but I damn sure would be just as happy_. He sat down in his chair, thinking of this and absently patting and smoothing the fabric of the arms. After a moment or so, he felt a tear fall from his left eye. _Stupid git. You wouldn't even be bothered to tell me you were alive even if you were, would you_? He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, causing another to be cut loose. His fingers curled tightly into the chair's cushion. He fought to center himself. Taking a deep breath, he focused on other things in order to stop the emotions from overwhelming once again. Then he reached into his pocket and texted that last thought to his arrogant, selfish flatmate. _So there_, he thought as he hit send.

_Stupid git. You wouldn't even be bothered to tell me you were alive even if you were, would you_? _-JW_

It made him feel a bit better. And as he sat there, his thoughts returned again to Anderson's absolute conviction. _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_, that was his oft repeated motto nowadays. And he really did have some elaborate and intriguing theories as to how it all could have been accomplished. But John's mind kept settling on the cold fact of a pale wrist in his hand, pulseless. Silver blue eyes, blank. And blood, everywhere. How do you fake that? No one could, that was how. It was impossible. But then, crept a thought in the back of his mind, didn't Sherlock always say something about impossible things?

John chuckled at himself. Look at me, heading to be as crazy as Anderson. And again, in the back of his mind, a questioning of rationale. One needn't lose oneself and become obsessed over the idea. What if it were simply an accepted fact that he was alive somehow? Out of reach for sure, but alive no less. Then there would be no need to prove anything. No need to fixate and become a sad parody of a man. Just accept it. Wouldn't that be a softer blow than accepting a person as being gone forever from this world? His brow furrowed at this train of thought. Perhaps it would actually be even better to think like that? After all, how much easier to accept texting someone who is in hiding or undercover rather than someone who is dead? Neither would be able to render any sort of response. But the former would at least give the sender a feeling of normalcy, if that term could ever be applied to situations involving Sherlock Holmes.

_Yes_, came the more conscious thought in answer to the previously subconscious. It would be better this way, seeing him as in hiding rather than dead. Either way he would never be able to contact John again, but at least the poor doctor could feel less emotionally shredded and empty when there was some form of hope out there. And it was the kind of hope that could never be taken away, because the detective would remain "in hiding" for the rest of their days. John had never seen the body after that initial moment on the sidewalk, and so he could just lend a bit more credence to a few of Anderson's more colorful theories in order to make this fantasy work for him. Yes, it felt better this way. Much better. He smiled as he picked his phone back up…and he pictured the same action being performed by long, slender, artistic fingers.

John imagined his very first text arriving in the middle of the night, startling the detective awake. Sherlock would roll quickly to the side of his cot, snatching at the phone, adrenaline pumping through his veins, because who would be texting a dead man? And he would read it and fall back across the single pillow, unreadable expression on his sharp features. _I still believe in you. –JW_ "John," he would whisper into the darkened room. And then he would sigh, wishing he could respond, but knowing it was too dangerous to do so.

Full of energy now, and never needing much sleep anyway, Sherlock would pace his small basement hideaway, thinking in those rapid-fire thought patterns of his that so intrigued John. One could almost _see_ the actual thinking going on. His dark hair is a wavy mess, sticking out at all angles, but still managing to seem artfully disarrayed. Frustrated, Sherlock finally stopped and stamped a bare foot on the cement flooring. "Damn," he muttered, throwing himself back onto the tiny cot. He pulled his hands into a steeple of fingers under his chin and relaxed down into his mind palace, leaving the outside world and all its complicated emotional intrusions behind.

John smiled at the imagined predicted actions of his best friend. Surely this wasn't harmful? It gave him such a feeling of relief picturing this one moment in time. His thoughts were silent as the flat had become for a minute or so. He decided then and there that he would continue to do it. He would also go tomorrow to the clinic. Yes, he was much better now thanks to his own form of coping. He stood from the chair and made a sparse military dinner of beans with some bread before retiring to his room for the night. And his last thoughts fell on a consulting detective, laying in a similar manner in a basement room somewhere far far away. Undercover. Asleep. Alive.


	3. Chapter 3

Extrapolations, predictions, and imaginings were connected to each text John sent, no matter how inconsequential the message being conveyed. Some were but momentary clips in time, lasting no more than a few seconds. A hand gesticulating. A smirk forming. An elegant eyebrow raising high upon a pale brow. Others stretched forward on lengthier spans of time, strung together by the strength of emotion and fragile hope. Each one individual. Each one born of an intimate knowledge of the other man's predilections. And each one as precious to him as true memories. He eventually scheduled particular times for these to occur, setting aside an hour or so of an evening here and there to read through his sent messages and place images with the words. Remembrance Nights, he fondly termed them. Once or so per week, he simply sat and created these memories, letting them flow forth and take their own shapes, replaying some and restructuring others. Enjoying the company of a man who was as lost to him as his own childhood days. No matter the cause of the loss; the result was the same.

_**7/2 You're not dead. –JW **_

Sherlock startles at that one, heart thumping hard in his chest. _How_?! He looks around the room frantically for evidence of betrayal or, or, or something.

_**7/2 At least not to me. –JW **_

Immediately, his heart slows. He sighs. John, only John could cause that reaction in him. Had Moriarty's ghost texted him just now, it would not have caused as much stir and turmoil. So he sits back at his laptop and stares into the screen as he continues researching.

_**7/17 D'you know that tall man we always saw around Mrs.H? Well, turns out he really was from China. –JW **_

A half-smile is given at the final deduction of the man's intentions he is now able to make from this information. How his fingers itch to reply the answer to his blogger. To preen his knowledge in front of him. This mental abstinence is almost painful.

_**7/25 Forgot my damn card again and had to leave the shopping. –JW **_

A rueful smirk at John's unending, often baffling, battles with obtaining groceries.

_**8/3 Do you ever think it could have ended differently? –JW **_

This strikes him as odd and makes him thoughtful. To what exactly was John referring? His "death?" His ruined reputation? Their last conversation before his spectacle on the rooftop? His…emotional constipation? Too many variables. Need more specifics to make this an answerable question. Dismissed.

_**8/7 Lestrade came by. Asked how I was doing. Nice of him, I suppose. But I really don't feel like talking to anyone but you. –JW **_

_**8/7 God, I just realized how awful that sounds. I'm pathetic. –JW **_

That second text had come in just seconds after the first was received. Sherlock stared down in frustration, willing comfort to the man on the other end. Then he threw himself back into his research, trying desperately to find a way to amend his situation and return home.

_**8/9 Moved your things around a bit today. Was just kind of going through them, and I found that picture of you sleeping. Do you remember the one? How did you ever manage with that plate on your face? And you were upside down at that? –JW **_

That actually won a full smile over the usually placid facial features. Though it quickly fell away as his surroundings instantly reminded him that he had no place for sentiment right now.

_**8/13 Sometimes I think I can still hear you when I'm lying in bed at night. –JW **_

_**8/13 It's kind of nice. –JW**_

A sad, thoughtful expression crosses the pale, usually frozen, mask. Something was creeping into him. He'd never thought it possible to feel this…whatever it was. Generally, he labeled it all as "sentiment" and blocked it away with other bothersome emotions that impeded thought caliber. But in his lonely isolation, it was easier to focus on what was missing. It wasn't even difficult to deduce. Obvious. He missed his blogger. His flatmate. His best and only friend.

_**8/17 Thought I saw you today while I was walking. Might finally be going totally nutter like Anderson. You know he still is working on clearing your name? Oh, and he's also still theorizing your survival and all that. He really believes you're out there. –JW **_

_**8/17 Wish I had his confidence. –JW **_

_**8/17 He's only lost his job over his obsession, though. –JW **_

_**8/17 Feel like I'm losing myself instead. –JW**_

_**8/17 Stupid git. You wouldn't even be bothered to tell me you were alive even if you were, would you? -JW**_

_**8/17 Goodnight Sherlock. –JW**_

"Goodnight, John," a whisper into the night-darkened air. A sparkle of something upon a stilled cheek as it made its way in a direction dictated by gravity.

_**8/31 You told me once that you weren't a hero, even if there ever were such things. –JW**_

_**8/31 You're wrong. –JW **_

Sherlock stared at the bright display for several minutes before gently setting the phone down. He rubbed his eyes with weary hands and turned back to the files and laptop. These texts were tearing him apart bit by bit. While amusing at first, and endearing in their confirmation of John's loyalty, they were rapidly serving to chip away at his resolve to remain anonymous. Regardless of how dangerous it would be to reveal himself at this point, his attachment to the man on the other end of these black and white messages was weakening a resolve once thought to be impervious.

_**9/8 Feeling kind of down right now. Really wish you were here. Got a call this morning. Harry's dead. Driving drunk. Went into a ditch. I've no family left now. Except you. And where does that leave me? –JW **_

The knife twisted deeper as the detective let the phone drop to the cot. His insides writhed with pain for his suffering friend, and he didn't know how to handle it. No experience to draw from as he had never allowed anyone this close before. He wrapped his arms around himself and stood to pace. But then he sat right back down. Motion felt wrong, though the pent up angst and energy within him was burning its way through his skin. Too many confusing and confounding variables! "Gaaahhh!" he yelled inarticulately at the wall opposite him, finally staring with disgust as it made no move to retaliate.

_**9/16 Been working at the clinic again for a little bit. A few days a week, just to keep current. Feels like there's something missing, though. –JW**_

_**9/16 I miss you. There. I said it. You can call me an addled twat or whatever, but there it is. –JW **_

_**9/16 I miss you. –JW**_

Sherlock stared despondently at these latest texts. A depressed little smirk flitted across lips, found a temporary home, and then promptly moved back out. His expression thereafter could only be adequately described as vacant. And he wore it for hours.

_**9/21 Let's have dinner. –JW**_

_**9/21 Just kidding! Seriously, though, I thought that one would be funny. -JW **_

_**9/21 I'm still laughing. –JW **_

_**9/21 God, I'm pathetic. –JW**_

_**9/21 Nite Sherlock. –JW**_

Silver-blue eyes reflecting the screen flickered in comprehension of their inside joke. The smile didn't show externally, but it had touched him all the same. He set the phone back beside his cot and continued his staring match with ceiling. Currently, several cracks in the plaster were one up on him. He found he just couldn't maintain his usual intensity amidst this stagnating seclusion. His concentration would falter and return to the only comfort he had now. "Goodnight, John," as he reached over for his phone again. He didn't deserve such friendship. Especially seeing as how all he did was bring pain and misery to the one person he would never wish it upon. He sighed loudly and turned over, still gazing at the luminescent glow. His fingers fingers swept over the screen, begging to reply…something, _anything_.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Absently, John wondered if it was too fanciful to imagine that Sherlock was feeling these same sorts of emotions. For while his friend certainly experienced an emotional spectrum greater than he was generally given credit for, still it seemed unlikely that he would be so expressive of it, let alone even recognize them for what they indicated. He returned his phone to the home screen and stretched as he stood. One more night down. _How many more to go until I see you again?_ he speculated to himself as he headed off for bed. Then he stopped at the base of his stairs, looking down to the floor, replaying his last bit of internal monologue. "Pathetic," and he stomped upwards.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft sat glaring at the screen of his desktop computer as if he could burn through the display with all the gathered powers of sheer annoyance. Good thing that wasn't possible… He sighed, frustrated, at the evidence he saw before him. His hands came up and raked, one at a time, through his hair before balling them up into a single fist that became a fixture on the end of his chin as he leaned forward on elbows reddened from repeating this exact pose for hours. He would need to act; and soon by the looks of things.

He pushed back to lean into the leather of his chair, once again questioning why he still honored this last wish of his brother's. Before Sherlock had…fallen…he had had a long, and tedious, discussion with Mycroft over the fate of John Watson should anything befall himself. "You do realize that he is not a possession that you own? That you can't just dictate 'what happens' to him, don't you brother dear?" the elder Holmes had asked, half-chiding, half-curious. Sherlock had just bored into him with those shade-shifting eyes of his, steel gray at the time, until Mycroft finally gave up and just asked for the specifics. He could hardly refuse his baby brother, no matter what others might think regarding Mycroft's aloofness and cold exterior.

And now…this. Trouble. He sighed again, inwardly this time; need to stop showing such displays of weakness and indecision on the exterior. Dr. Watson had initially grieved as the older Holmes expected. Withdrawn, depressed, decreased appetite, etc. Although, this initial period had lasted a bit shorter than he had predicted. In fact, within a matter of three weeks, Dr. Watson had seemed relatively normal, with the exception of still being socially inaccessible. And there had been no obvious reasoning for this shift. No new relationships or career change. No support groups. No drugs. It all seemed so very odd. And so, as Sherlock's last wish was for John's well-being to be looked after, Mycroft had investigated, sensing an abnormality he couldn't quite put a finger on. What he found astounded even him.

He had noticed quickly that Dr. Watson's cell phone was getting more use as time progressed onward from the…incident. But it wasn't actual phone calls. It was texts. And not texts to any of the numerous people who currently worried over him and actually _wished_ he would contact them somehow. No. They were all to a single individual's number. One the doctor should recognize as nonfunctioning. Mycroft shook his head at the ridiculousness of the idea of texting the dead. Given, perhaps one or two texts could conceivably be overlooked. Kind of like bringing flowers with a card attached to the cemetery. Sentiment. Human emotion and attachment. Brief flights of sanity were often forgiven of those suffering great loss, especially in the acute phase.

But this…this was no brief interlude of grief making itself known. This was something else. Delusion? Acute psychosis? It mattered not at any rate. It needed to be ended, and soon. Not because Mycroft was truly worried that John was insane, but because others, namely those in the remaining web of Moriarty's network, might catch wind of it and decide to finish what they had started. Much progress had been made in these months after, and soon this very well might not be an issue. But for now, it _could_ possibly endanger the doctor's life. And besides the obvious threat of Moriarty's second, Sebastian Moran, there was also a more recent change in John's mannerisms, in this last two weeks in particular. For though he was still consistently texting the deceased, where it used to seemingly bring comfort, it now appeared that he was declining once again. His nonessential forays outside of the flat were lessening in frequency. And his expression, when observed, was just, less…_him_. Like he was putting on a mask of what he thought people wanted to see. If left alone long enough, his health may deteriorate.

Finally rallying his decisiveness, he rang his assistant to bring the car around. He would go straight over and discuss the situation with the other man. Dr. Watson had always been a level-headed man who listened with attentiveness to reason. Surely he would understand and accept Mycroft's assessment of the situation? Because if not…if not, then the remaining Holmes would do some things neither of them would enjoy; but it would keep Watson safe. And that end certainly justified the means, and would allow him to keep his word. It seemed longer than a mere few months ago when he had agreed to this. And even then, he never had thought it would come to him actually having to uphold the promise. There was so much left unsaid where he and Sherlock were concerned. He hoped that his actions here would atone for a bit of the mistakes he'd made there at the end.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John looked up to see the imposing silhouette of the elder Holmes brother standing in the doorway to the living area. With an inward groan, he made to stand, but Mycroft motioned him to remain where he was, saying, "I won't be long, Dr. Watson." And so John settled back down, crossed one leg over the other, and tilted his head in impatience as if he had actually been about to go out somewhere. It may not be true, but he still wasn't feeling up to company yet; especially not _this_ company. Mycroft slithered inside and took a position a few feet ahead of the chair John sat in. He tilted his umbrella out and leaned a bit more weight on it, using the motion to gather his thoughts.

"I'll be brief, John. It has come to my attention that you are doing something potentially harmful," and he began to pace back and forth from the couch table and back to John, back and forth, a nervousness making it impossible to remain still. John began, "I don't think…" and was interrupted. "Oh, I think you do, John," and Mycroft whirled around to face him, continuing, "My brother, John. You've been texting him. Repeatedly. For months." And they stared one another down as that accusation hung in the air between them. All of John's tightly rationalized reasons scattered; his insecurities arose to take their place. _He knew? Oh God_. It made him sick to think this. He stared in disbelief at the other man and couldn't seem to find his voice, which was alright as Mycroft seemed fine enough to fill the silence for both of them. "Let me be clear on this: You are in danger when you do this. Mentally…and perhaps physically as well; although we can find no hard evidence of this as of yet."

John blinked. Danger? He laughed in his head. _Who cares?_ And then he sobered as he thought, _Sherlock would_. Mycroft made an impatient noise as he watched the thoughts flit through John's mind, saying, "Look, I'm…worried…about you. Alright? My brother would never have wanted you to suffer like this, John. Please. Just promise me you'll try? Something?" And John was still for long moments as he contemplated his being discovered. It hurt to think he would be taking away his only method of communicating with...coping with…Sherlock. But he knew Mycroft would keep standing there until he had an answer, so he took a deep breath, and said, "Yeah, alright. Sure, sure. I'll…try." It all sounded so forced.

Mycroft gazed at him for another moment, gauging his sincerity no doubt, before saying with a false smile, "Good. Very good." And he spun from where he had been pacing again and called out as he passed through the doorway and down the stairs, "I'll be watching." _What a comfort_, John thought with a shiver as the front door closed downstairs. While he appreciated the fact that Mycroft himself was dealing in his own way with the guilt of having let Sherlock down, he would never easily go along with this kind of pushing. God, he was so tired. He didn't want to deal with this now. _What time is it?_ With a glance at the clock, he decided that he would rather think this whole nasty business over tomorrow instead.

He put up his dishes, rinsed his hands and slapped a bit of water on his face before patting it dry. Looking in the mirror, he saw a pale reflection of the man that used to be there. His blue eyes were murky now, no longer lit from within by excitement. And as he retreated to his room and dressed in sleep pants, he noted they fit looser than they had a few weeks back. He climbed unhappily into bed soon after, reaching over to the side table for the cable charger to his phone. Plugging it in, he looked at the screen, debating internally a moment, before clicking open his one-sided conversation with the detective. He typed in his message and hit send, then lay the phone down and quickly became lost in dreams of a world in which consulting detectives never fell.

_**10/1 What's real anymore? I'm falling, too. Catch me?**_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** **Sorry for the exceedingly short chapter, but I just didn't want to fit it onto any of the others, so it's just gotta sit out by itself.**

Across the street, peering through a window that allows a downward angled view inside of 221B, crouched a man with short-cropped, dusty hair. He watched in silence, straining his sight through the telescope, wishing for a better viewpoint. Cold, hard eyes analyzed the scene inside. Again, he fingered the volume knob on the headphones he wore, though he had long since turned them as far as they allowed. Connected to a small, unassuming laptop, they were his only inside source of information as to what was actually being said inside of that flat. Months ago when Sherlock had found the small camera and tossed it, the detective had failed to notice the smallish microphone beside it, and so it had remained. Although, due to that stupid old woman's "tidying," a book and some other clutter now muffled most of what went on. Unless one were to stand within two feet of it and speak clearly, it was almost useless. However, proximity and loud voices could still manage to float through intelligibly at times, often imparting at least a portion of the conversation. And so he had left the connection intact for just such an opportunity as this.

Sebastian grinned to himself. Somewhere within the crazed depths of his mind, the part that had dedicated his soul to Jim's 'final problem,' he found a giddiness growing. He had waited so long to finish Jim's work. Though there was nothing waiting for him after this last job, he looked forward to the oblivion he was rushing towards, because he knew…he _knew_…it would make Jim happy. And everything Sebastian ever did was geared toward that singular goal. He focused on it with an intensity reflected in the eyes of zealots the world over.

When it first happened, before he knew that Jim had passed beyond his reach, he had gotten the text that Holmes had jumped. But before he could make his final recall orders to the field team, the agent assigned to John Watson, who had sent the confirmation text, was killed. Sebastian himself had been eyeing Lestrade at the time, and so he had no further information available to him other than what could later be gathered through the usual channels of inquiry. How odd that the agent was discovered and dispatched before even leaving the building from whence he had set up… He found out shortly after that Mycroft Holmes, the government itself, had worked out the plot too late for Sherlock, but soon enough for his friends. The other agent on Mrs. Hudson made it only as far as his car before death took him. He was, however, able to communicate with Sebastian that Jim was gone before he met his own fate. The only reason Sebastian could figure that he himself had escaped that day is because he had then reacted from grief and fled in an unpredictable manner, choosing not to return to the safehouse but instead to a place of significance to him alone. The basement where he had first been introduced to the grand brilliance that was Jim Moriarty.

Since then, he had kept tabs on John Watson, as Jim had instructed him to do anyway to insure there had been no trickery or falsifying. Jim never left anything to chance, especially where this so-called consulting detective was concerned. And at first, he had thought it a waste of time. Why not kill him and be done? Then he could go into eternity happily. But Jim Moriarty knew Sherlock Holmes inside and out. And he knew that as long as John Watson lives, if Sherlock was also alive, then he would never be able to leave him fully behind. The perfect lure. Sebastian may have griped internally, but he obeyed. And waited.

And then, the doctor _had_ changed. Subtly at first, but gaining notice easily in pretty quick order. And though he could discern no reason for it, the assassin watched closer. He was a trained killer, and so he had great patience in waiting out his prey. After all, if this change in demeanor indicated the detective being alive in any fashion…if he actually _had_ managed to fool everyone…oh, how Sebastian looked forward to being the one to end the 'problem' for good. And so he listened to the partially blotted out conversation with all the attention of a hawk minding a fieldmouse as Mycroft crossed into the room and began to address John.

"I'll be brief….you are doing something…harmful."

"I don't think…" Sebastian heard the faint reply.

"…I think…do, John." Silence for a moment before Mycroft continued.

"My brother… You've been texting him ...….. For months!"

More silence until the older Homes brother speaks again. Sebastian strains harder even than before, wishing the connection wasn't so bad, but unfortunately the two men aren't speaking very loudly or nearby any longer.

"….are in danger… ….perhaps…..as well. …evidence of this as….."

The rest was almost unable to be made out, with Sebastian hearing only a further mention of "my brother" once again. He sighed, not in exasperation, though, but in triumph. Finally! Admission right from the detective's brother himself! And John had been _texting_ Sherlock? Well, no wonder he hadn't been able to figure out what was going on. He shook his head in contained mirth. _Only a little while longer now. And if you don't reveal yourself soon…I'll make you come to me_. He glanced down the telescope again, eyes settling on the half-shaded form of John Watson. He stroked his hand along the rifle at his side, almost sensually, as he watched. _Though I don't think you'll like the bait I'm going to stick my hook into…_


	6. Chapter 6

John called out of work for the next few shifts. That gave him almost two weeks to straighten himself out and find a new method of coping. Right. He looked out the window at the evening sky, black silk with jewels attached. He rolled his shoulders and looked at the phone in his lap. He pursed his lips, looked up, then looked back down. Maybe some tea first? Yes, tea. He stood and went to the kitchen. Definitely not using tea to put this off. Nope. Just wanted some tea. Yep. And within minutes he was sat back down in the same spot, with tea he didn't want. And still the phone stared sullenly back up at him. _Damn_.

With a sigh, he decided he would approach it as he did a break up. With conversation. Except that it was one-way. And except that it wasn't talking, it was texting. To a dead man. _Not helping_, he thought. "Pfftftt," he blew out as he shifted around, seeking a more comfortable position. It had been five days since Mycroft's visit. And at first he could ignore the other man's chiding about it being unhealthy and potentially dangerous, but then… He remembered the feelings he experienced when he found out that Mycroft, someone else, had found out his guilty little secret. Not good. It was shameful was what it was. And embarrassing. But as he looked at the message screen in front of him he thought, _But it's also warm, comforting, cathartic…and makes me feel like I still have him here._

Before he registered what he was doing, he had started texting.

_**10/6 - 2015 Am I crazy? –JW **_

_**2016 This feels right. Not wrong or demented. –JW **_

_**2019 How can you miss someone this much and not want to hold on to some piece of respite for yourself? –JW **_

_**2025 This is my habit. My guilty secret now. –JW **_

_**2027 I don't care. I even wish you were here just to tell me how stupid and sentimental I'm being. –JW **_

_**2028 I'd even let you see me cry. I am now anyway. –JW **_

He stopped to wipe his eyes, though it only worked for a second or two, the tears returning easily. He attempted to think of something less morose in order to stop them. Bleary-eyed, he typed on.

_**2035 Did you ever finish that Bond movie? The one I fell asleep during? –JW **_

_**2037 I about pissed myself when I woke up drooling on your shoulder. –JW **_

_**2040 But you didn't seem to mind. Or notice. –JW**_

He laughed a little at the memory, and he thought he could see the Sherlock in mind's eye laughing with him. Every moment John had known him, Sherlock had been so vibrant and full of energy. Even in his worst flat-eyed, non-communicative, strops. Always. That was part of what made it so hard to accept him as being gone.

_**2057 Do you really not believe in Heaven? –JW**_

_**2059 Not even an Everafter of some sort? –JW**_

_**2103 So we're all just gone? Gone away to you when we die? –JW**_

_**2104 I don't think I could ever imagine you as being gone forever Sherlock. –JW**_

_**2105 Not when I still feel you here. It's like you're just in the other room, about to come in and ruin my night. –JW**_

_**2111 Sorry. I would actually love for you to come ruin my night right about now. –JW**_

_**2152 Apologies. Thought some wine might do for this. Had to rummage about to find one you hadn't, um, tampered with from before. –JW**_

_**2158 You're my best friend. –JW**_

_**2203 I don't suppose you'd like to make good on that miracle tonight? –JW**_

_**2215 I could really use a miracle. –JW **_

_**2237 Sherlock? -JW **_

_**2239 Thought I'd trick you there. –JW **_

_**2240 Guess not. –JW **_

_**2253 I wonder. Would you like some company?**_

_**2259 Did I ever tell you how much I owe you? Everything. That's how much. I had nothing when I came back. Nothing. And you brought it all back into focus. Gave me a purpose. –JW **_

_**2302 Everything. –JW **_

_**2309 But I have to wonder now. –JW **_

_**2311 If everything I gained was a result of you, then what am I left with now? –JW **_

_**2315 What's the opposite of everything? –JW **_

_**2317 Nothing. –JW **_

_**0001 Just got done going back through all the texts I've sent you since –JW **_

_**0002 Hold on. –JW **_

_**0007 Sorry. Got a bit, well, you wouldn't understand I'm sure. –JW **_

_**0009 Went back through all of my texts to you these last months. I picture you when I send them. How you'd react and all that. Silly right? –JW **_

_**0012 Except it's not. To me. Silly, that is. –JW **_

_**0015 It's all I've got left. –JW **_

_**0023 Gonna do some thinking for a bit. –JW **_

He leaned back and took a long time to think through his life up until this point. Then he moved on to the future, and what it had to offer a man with nothing left. No drive. No energy. No…Sherlock.

_**0129 Sherlock? –JW **_

_**0130 I can't Sherlock. Not anymore. –JW **_

_**0133 When you were here, I could be brave. For you. My best friend. –JW **_

_**0135 Nothing. –JW **_

_**0137 Nothing. –JW **_

_**0138 Nothing. –JW **_

_**0145 I still have it, you know. My gun. You always took for granted that I would have it with me. –JW **_

_**0147 I still do. –JW **_

_**0201 I've always favored this caliber. Light enough to easily carry but enough stopping power to make it worth bringing along. –JW **_

_**0203 It fits my hand so well. –JW **_

_**0205 Cold, hard, sleek. A perfect machine. Like you. –JW **_

_**0207 Nothing. –JW **_

_**0209 Still loaded, too. –JW **_

_**0213 I think I may –JW **_

John dropped the phone on the bed where he had ended up after a long line of one-way texts. It sent the half completed message anyway. His eyes were dry now. The evening leading up had dried the reserves. All he had now was the hollowed out feeling of a man with nothing else to give and no hope of ever getting better. He couldn't cope without his fantasies. And he didn't want to anyway. He was a broken man once again. And what were the chances of there being another Sherlock Holmes out there to pick up his pieces?

His hand caressed the cold metal of the gun's barrel. It would be quick. Then it'd be done. Finished. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He grasped it in his hand, his eyes blank, his heart accepting of this choice. Now only one thing to decide: mouth, or temple? He stared on, contemplating, and then came to with a shock of electricity as he heard _**it**_ in the darkened room. _Bling_! The phone chime sounded off, and the screen lit up before him. _Message received_. Reality slammed back into him as his heart pounded, making it difficult to breathe as he raised the screen to eye level and read the single-worded message, silently at first. Then out loud as if to confirm it being real.

_**0214 John. –SH **_

Another message alert flitted through his tympanic membrane as another single-worded reply appeared before him.

_**0215 Don't. –SH **_

He was going to pass out. No! Stay conscious! He texted frantically in reply, fingers hitting in all the wrong spots. Thank God for autocorrect. Sometimes.

_**0216 Where are you? –JW **_

_**0217 Where are you? –JW **_

_**0218 Sherlock?! –JW **_

_**0219 Answer me! –JW**_

_**0220 Why won't you answer? Are you in trouble? –JW**_

_**0221 Do you need help? –JW **_

_**0222 Damn it Sherlock. Let me help you! –JW **_

_**0223 Answer me? –JW **_

_**0225 Please. –JW **_

_**0230 Please Sherlock. –JW **_

Minutes passed with nothing but his own harsh breathing and his thumping heart to break the silent monotony of the bedroom.

_**0245 Okay. I get it. You can't. But please. One more. Just so I know I'm not mad. –JW **_

_**0247 Please. –JW **_

He waited for an eternity of minutes. He felt like he might simultaneously vomit and break into song. The emotions warring within him turned his mind into useless clay. But still he waited. And waited, as the minutes passed. Turned into an hour. The effects of the adrenaline burst, paired with the alcohol and weeks of sleep deprivation, caused his eyes to droop lower as he waited. He felt almost drugged after the adrenaline left his system. And if it wasn't for the two previous texts standing out as stark reminders, he would have thought he'd dreamed the whole thing up. But he kept going back over them, swiping his fingers over the letters as if it would bring _him_ there.

He half-imagined, half-dreamed, of the turmoil and angst that his friend must have been experiencing all these months of receiving texts and never being able to respond. He could see Sherlock pacing, throwing things, yelling at the walls. And then, one night, the detective gets progressively worsening and forlorn texts from him that led up to…to… _Oh God, what did I almost do?_ he thought in horror as he replayed his actions this night. In his excitement, he had neglected to recognize exactly what he had been contemplating doing with his gun… And just as he is about to launch himself into a full blown panic attack on a scale of epic self-deprecation, he hears the alert again and almost knocks the phone onto the floor in his haste to grab it.

_**0401 Could be dangerous. –SH **_


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Okay, so some folks have messaged and begged for a quick update. Yay! Glad y'all are enjoying it so much, and here it is. However, I doubt that you're going to like where this chapter leaves you. Especially since I probably won't have any time tomorrow to do the next one as quickly. Warning: Much pain and angst ahead…seriously. It hurt to write even when _I_ know what's going on.

Mycroft couldn't believe what his agents were reporting to him. Dr. Watson could not, _could not_, be so insufferably _stupid_… He fumed, and one of the agents at his door could just picture the wafts of smoke setting adrift from the man's aristocratic posture. Mycroft's eyes went still and unfocused as he began to internally examine the evidence presented before him. He shifted through it all, and then decided to further examine the subject of his troubles. Perhaps inspiration could be found there? John H. Watson. Military doctor. Self-proclaimed "broken man" who was supposedly "fixed" by Sherlock's influencing presence in his life. Take away that influence, and what is left? A man who has been rebroken, with the pieces much smaller this time. A man now emotionally unstable who would resort to texting a dead man in order to seek comfort. And who would further text that same dead personage whilst entertaining suicidal ideations. _Damn him_! Him and his _human_ need for closure. He had forced Mycroft's hand in this.

Outwardly, Mycroft still appeared to be staring at the contents displayed on his desk in the myriad folders, files, and open desktop icons on his computer. Inwardly, he seethed at his impossible situation. Watch over Dr. Watson? _Yes, Sherlock. But I had never thought it would come to this_. Be sure he would never come to any harm? _Yes, Sherlock. I will watch over him as you would yourself. _Then he blinked, hard_. But you were never supposed to die!_ That wasn't part of the plan, and Mycroft would never forgive his brother for it. Not that any of that mattered a whit to the consulting detective. Although, he had to admit, it had never mattered to him while alive, so why would it now "posthumously?" He could almost laugh at that. Almost. One quarter of his left eyelid twitched, the only outward sign that anything was wrong.

Damn it! He had never wanted to get more involved than simply observing the other man. But now…but now…he himself had crossed a line. Made yet another mistake where it concerned his baby brother. He never should have interfered in the first place, then it wouldn't have progressed this far. Forbidding John to text had only made it worse. And then, when the agent monitoring the internal workings of 221B Baker Street had reported that, at 30 minutes after midnight seven days ago, John Watson had been drinking…and had been cleaning his gun…Mycroft knew he had to act fast. And so he made a decision that was based more on instinct than logic in that moment. And now he needed to correct that mistake before it got John killed.

He didn't actually like being the bad guy, despite what his cold exterior may exude, he simply chose not to dabble in, or open himself to, experiences that could potentially leave him vulnerable. Like this. _Oh, why couldn't the stubborn man just let my brother go?_ he bemoaned. People died all the time. Their friends and relatives mourned. They all moved on. _Well_, he thought as a side bar, _perhaps it is more correct to state that the _majority_ of the population moves on after the dead have been dealt with._ After all, there were those numerous cases of such attachment, love, and sickening devotion wherein the remaining lover wastes away slowly, eventually following the predecessor into the unknown…

Mycroft's head snapped up, his eyes gone wide. The movement startled one of the agents, who began to move forward until a quick upward flick of a hand halted him. Mycroft's widened eyes became narrowed to slits with a new line of thought, and he leaned forward, placing his chin on the backs of his overlapped hands. _So little brother, you did not simply "fix" the good doctor. No. You did something else entirely to him_. And the elder Holmes' eyes slowly slid shut as he realized, _And I have just compounded a bad situation into a terrible one with my actions. But if I didn't act, who knows what John might have done?_

There was nothing else for it, though. John had been easily noted as being clinically depressed for the five days following Mycroft's visit. And then, suddenly, yesterday morning, he had emerged from the flat as though the world was perfect. Nothing wrong. Not a care in the world. Practically…peachy. And because _he_ had noticed it, he knew that any other kinds of agents monitoring 221B would notice it as well. He pushed back from the desk, sitting up straight in his chair as he reached into his pocket for something. _This will be the breaking of him_, he thought unhappily as he pulled it forth. But if it will keep the doctor from becoming a late victim of Moriarty, then Mycroft would personally see that John was institutionalized until his mental state regained its balance. He looked down at the phone in his hand. And then he set it before him on the desk…right next to his own… _Oh Sherlock…what have you done to us all?_

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John was lying sideways across his chair with a crossword laid over his abdomen as he pictured, once again, what he believed must have happened during the night, that glorious night, when he found that his best friend still lived. He played it over and over again in his head. The sorrow etched into Sherlock's features, evident only for those who knew him closely. The slight tremor of his hand as he took the risk and sent a message to John from beyond the grave. And the special smile John loved, the one that held a dark, inner mirth. Half-smile, half-smirk. There and gone, flitting across his lips like a remembered dream. That was how he pictured the detective as he had sent that last message; the one John held against his heart as proof that the world isn't so bad a place after all. _**Could be dangerous. –SH**_

And it was within this happy realm of thought, in the late afternoon, when he heard a cough from behind and to the side of him. Neither of the Holmes brothers had ever learned to knock or announce themselves it seemed. But John was suddenly excited to see Mycroft. Finally! Someone he could share this wonderful secret with! And then the light that had begun to brighten his features dimmed a bit as he thought, _Wait a bit…if Sherlock's alive… Oh bloody hell, he probably was in on the whole damn thing. That's why he was so adamant about my stopping the texts! _It hit him like a sack of concrete. And upon reaching this conclusion, John's eyes came back into the sweep of Mycroft's penetrating gaze.

"Mycroft, I have to ask you something, and it's..." "Stop, John," the other man interrupted brusquely, "Just stop." He swept into the room and came to stand in front of where John had now clambered to his feet beside the chair. "Sit back down, John. You won't like what I'm going to say." But John needed to get it out, all of it, "But I know, Mycroft. I _know_! Don't you see? I've figured it out. I've even had proof. Sherlock..." "Is dead," finished the elder Holmes, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and growing more so by the second. John made an exasperated noise in his throat, "No, Mycroft. I _know_ he's alive. You don't need to pretend anymore, as I'm sure you're in on the whole bloody damn thing. It's probably you that's keeping him a secret from me, isn't it? Your idea. And while I don't appreciate any of this, I can understand…the reasons…behind…it…" John trailed off as he saw, really _saw_, Mycroft's expression.

Somewhere between sorrow and pity, the eyes that could give foreign monarchs episodes of irritable bowel held a single word within their depths. And John could read the word clearly. _Sorry_. He swallowed an uncomfortable feeling. "Mycroft…?" John said as he started to reach for his phone to bring out the aforementioned proof. And the other man held up his hand, meaning for John to not go through with it, but it only slowed the doctor's hand instead of stopping it. John scrolled down through his messages, noting as he did that Mycroft had pulled out his own phone, too, and was typing something into it. _Odd_. And then John found it. His three precious links back to life. He smiled as he turned the screen around to exhibit them.

Mycroft didn't look up at first; he just finished his fiddling with the phone. Then he looked up at John, not John's phone, with a soul burning ache evident all over his expression as he hit the screen in his hand one last time. _Send_. The elder Holmes' eyes slid closed. John felt a cold begin to work its way up his spine. _Bleep_! His eyes blinked at the sudden interruption of a message alert issuing from the device in his hand. And he felt…time…slow...as he turned the screen back to face him. His pupils focused in on the new words that appeared just under the last message received. A repeat. And the world fell out from under him.

_**10/8 Could be dangerous. –SH **_

He felt the air thicken, his heart began to pound, and his vision tunneled into one focal point. The words on the screen mocked him. And he felt an unreality settle around himself. He felt…undone. His eyes regained their function slowly, and he looked back up in horror at Mycroft…who was holding _two_ phones. His own…and…Sherlock's… And his brain flatlined. _No…no…no…No…No…No…NO…NO…NO!_ And then he realized he really was screaming. At Mycroft. At Sherlock. At anyone in his mind. What betrayal was worse than this?! How could there ever be anything worse than having your soul torn apart, pieced back together and returned, only to then be frozen and broken into a million shards of glass, each one tearing new wounds as it passed through him? Oh, he _hurt_. And this pain was a living thing inside of him. It began in his bones and seeped out into his organs, his skin, his eyes, his heart… It was a sickness of the body _and_ spirit. With no cure, and no way to ease it.

John wanted, in that moment, nothing more than to be left with his pain. Wounded animal that he was. Dying in spirit. He sent out a thought into the ether, _You were right, Sherlock. Alone __**is**__ what protects people_. Mycroft attempted several times to calm him. To reassure him. To proffer him any kind of assistance that the world had to offer. But he wanted none of it. He only wanted the other man to leave. And he did, eventually, after obtaining the gun and placing one agent at the entry door and another monitoring per video and audio placed within the flat's interior. Mycroft made a quick stop off a few streets over before heading back to his office, where he fully intended on focusing all of his remaining efforts to finding the last of Moriarty's damned associates, one Sebastian Moran. Once that man was out of the picture, things would be much easier for John. _Oh, John. I'm so sorry. I often thought my brother was the world's biggest fool, but it seems you and I are in the running as well._


	8. Chapter 8

"Sherlock…" whispered John into the still air. He lay splayed across his bed upstairs where he had gone to collapse a short while after Mycroft's departure. His body looked like nothing so much as a forgotten toy that some errant child had tossed aside. And with the exception of turning his head once or twice, he hadn't moved in two hours. Broken, everything was broken. He fancied he could actually see the chaotic pattern of sharp cracks spreading out across his life. Jagged flecks of the mirror reflecting his life back at him fell onto his soul and slowly began to destroy him from the inside, each worming its way deeper and deeper. How was it possible to feel such pain with no actual wound? He knew the physical; he knew _that_ resultant pain. Was comfortable with its familiar predictability; it's timeline of suffering being finite. Enough Morphine would erase the discomfort while healing took place. This, however, had no salve, no medicinal method of dulling the unending ache. Certainly, enough mind-altering drugs could push him past the point of caring; but only temporarily. As soon as he returned to reality, the pain would resume its cold work.

Those who had lived long enough would tell you that time is the only true healer. But even _they_ agreed that you never evaded the hurt entirely, just dulled its persistent ache. How did anyone ever live through this and learn to cope? He made a decision in that moment when his mind seemed to be slipping back towards those dark and murky thoughts of earlier that evening. He wouldn't fall prey to that again. Suicide was not who he was. That had been a moment of true weakness earlier. But he would never want to desecrate Sherlock's memory by giving up what the detective had sought so desperately to protect. The look of reproach in those silvery orbs flashed before his eyes, making him shiver with the intensity of their probing gaze, always pulling apart anything they lingered on.

So then…what? They had known each other for barely two years, though it seemed a lifetime of memories was packed into their limited time. He should be glad they had shared so much, lived so truly, during that time period. "Heh," he laughed to himself. Might as well start marking his lifeline by B.S. and A.S., for before and after Sherlock. _And then a third time period, A.F., for…the fall_, he sighed inwardly. He thought back to the first time he had laughed, truly laughed, after his return from Afghanistan. It had seemed lost to him forever. He had felt so alone and useless when he returned. Sure, he could practice as a GP, but where was the life, the purpose, in _that_ for him? He had chosen trauma medicine because it was where his passion lay. And then he was wounded. And discharged from service. Unwanted. Abandoned.

He remembered running through the streets of London after the madman he had just met and become flatmates with. Adrenaline, a pure and natural high, had raged through his veins like a brushfire in a desiccated forest. Invigorating. Reaffirming. And when they got back to the flat, and they had both bumped up against the entryway wall to pause for breath…it returned. His laughter. And it felt so good. He felt in that moment that he was at the beginning of something immeasurably important. His life, his drive, was returning to him bit by bit as the days passed spent in the company of the world's only consulting detective. And though some of the things Sherlock had done had pissed him off almost beyond belief, still he accepted it all as part of the deal. And he didn't regret one moment of it.

Memories were all he had now. He would have to find a means of coping that involved just those then since Mycroft was so adamant about his texts. He still couldn't fully grasp why the issue was so important to the elder Holmes, and he doubted the other man would ever be forthcoming concerning his reasoning. _Bloody close-mouthed bastard_, he thought. And he looked at his phone, picking it up and flicking the screen on. He stared at it blankly. Then he opened the message conversations with Sherlock and read over them all again. He had felt so _good_, so elated. Like his world had been righted on its axis. Now, all he saw was a forgery. A false bandage upon his shredded soul.

His thumb hovered over a part of the screen. _Delete All_. He took a deep breath…and tapped it. And they were gone, as if they had never been. _And really, they hadn't_, he thought sadly. He stared at the blank, white rectangle now. The need to do something, to gain some closure, was drawing down on him. It burned within him. Much like how a widow might go to extraordinary lengths in order to scatter her husband's ashes over a certain piece of the continent, so, too, did he desire a final showing of his belief in, loyalty to, and love for his friend. His eyes scanned his room and landed on the blue scarf of Sherlock's that he had dropped onto the dresser last week. He couldn't even remember why he had been carrying it around. Then his eyes fell back to the blank screen. He wanted a degree of closure, even if it meant being a bit disobedient for the present time. He tapped to begin a new text.

_**2103 Mycroft, I don't care that you read this, just please allow a grieving friend one further bit of self-administered therapy. And then I promise I'll stop this for good. -JW **_

He hit _Send_ and waited a few minutes. No answer was forthcoming; not that he had expected one, but still. So he continued…

_**2110 Sherlock, I have spoken to you at your graveside. –JW **_

_**2112 I have spoken to you while sitting in front of your chair. –JW**_

_**2114 Truth be told, I have spoken to you in my own head a few times as well. –JW**_

_**2115 Don't tell Mycroft. Ha. Ha. –JW**_

_**2121 Anyway, for some reason, though, I just feel more of a direct connection to you through this method. –JW**_

_**2123 Maybe it's because I had previously been able to entertain the thought that you might truly be out there somewhere. Taking comfort from my words. –JW**_

_**2126 Since that is no longer going to be the case, I needed to send this final series of texts to you. –JW**_

_**2129 I've told you before, at your grave, that I was so alone before meeting you. –JW**_

_**2130 Nothing could have been further from the truth. –JW**_

_**2131 Alone does not even begin to encompass the emptiness I carried inside of me before meeting you. –JW**_

_**2133 You gave me so much more than any other individual ever has. You're an amazing person. Truly. –JW **_

_**2135 There is nothing I can say that will be able to convey the gratitude I feel toward you. I only wish I had tried before. –JW**_

_**2143 Sorry, had a moment there. –JW **_

_**2144 I may not get the chance to thank you in this life now, but that doesn't mean I can't still try. In my own way. –JW**_

_**2147 There are so many views on death, and I know what yours were. –JW**_

_**2148 But, I think, this time, you were wrong. It does happen you know. –JW**_

_**2150 I will see you again. I will. And I refuse to believe otherwise. –JW**_

_**2152 Because to admit any other possibility is unthinkable. Even you have no proof positive either way. –JW**_

_**2153 So I'll just wait then. –JW**_

_**2155 And when it happens, I'm going to give you the most personal-space-ignorant and socially-uncomfortable-hug ever performed. And you, you bloody great git, are going to take it. –JW**_

_**2158 So see you later. –JW**_

_**2201 I can't wait. –JW**_

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

_**2313 Funny. All this "talking" to you must be playing tricks on me. –JW **_

_**2315 I thought I heard Mrs. Hudson come in downstairs. But it's far too late for her. –JW**_

_**2316 And she's supposed to be on vacation for another three days with that fellow from the shop. –JW**_

_**2318 I think I may have to go investigate now, because it's definitely not my imagination. –JW**_

_**2320 Yep, I'm headed down to see who's poking around the flat. Probably Mycroft to scold me for this extended session. But I'm sorry, it just felt comfortable doing this. Thanks. –JW**_

John set the phone down on his bed and pulled on his dressing gown and toed on a pair of shoes. He pocketed the phone in the outside of the gown, opened the door, and peered down to the main area of the flat. Nothing but silence and darkness greeted him. _Hmmm_. Maybe she got a cat? She had been talking about it lately, he thought as he descended the stairs quietly. Reaching the bottom, he palmed the phone in his pocket, thinking belatedly about Mycroft's warnings of him being in danger. Though, so far, all that had presented itself was a slight draft and a few creaks of the old flat settling in the cold of the night.

He took a few tentative steps lightly into the living area, eyes scanning the dimly lit space for anything out of place. Nothing untoward was immediately evident. The needle went into his thigh with but a whisper of cloth and a sting of irritation as the contents spilled forth from its tip into the muscle. John grunted in surprise and swung about, clipping the attacker on the shoulder. He yanked the syringe from his leg and tossed it aside, ready for violence. But the intruder seemed content to retreat and wait for the drug to take effect.

John's mind flew, his racing heart not helping the speed at which the drug would be delivered throughout his body. Already, things were fuzzing in and out. The attacker was but a dark blotch against the far wall. The doctor backed up toward the fireplace, pulling his phone out quickly. No chance to fight this person off in his drugged state. He would need help. And quickly. But the screen swam in front of his face. He couldn't read the words displayed. So he just hit the call button twice, ringing whatever his last contact had been. But then he realized as it kept ringing, _Shit_. _I'm dialing Sherlock_. Now he was screwed. He'd managed to call the one person who couldn't answer. And the phone fell from his hand to bounce on the place rug as his limbs started to refuse their fight against gravity. He swayed a bit, and the shadow came closer, approaching cautiously.

"Who are you?" John almost slurred. "A friend of a friend," came the sibilant reply. "What the hell do you want, then?" the beleaguered doctor trying to keep the man occupied as long as possible, holding out hope for the miracle he knew wasn't coming. Just as the last miracle he had asked for had never surfaced. The figure bent forward a bit at his second question, saying softly, "Bait." He barely registered when his knees made contact as he started to go down, just letting out a small grunt at the impact; and he knew nothing of when the floor kissed him goodnight.

The shadow blurred into motion, grabbing the doctor under the arms and dragging him toward the open doorway. His shoes made light noises as they hit each step while he was dragged down behind the mysterious figure. Behind them, in the darkened flat, John's phone remained behind. The screen still glowed from where he had been attempting to call for help. On the display, it read:

_Connected, Sherlock_. And the timer was counting upward…currently on the 32 second mark.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Mycroft's hand flew over the keys to his computer as he called out orders to the people behind him and frantically tried to connect a call to another agent. He knew when John had started texting again, but he had paid it no mind. _I've done all that I can._ _He'll have to work it out for himself now_, he had thought. But then, the agent in front of John's house had failed to check in 30 minutes ago; and Mycroft phoned the audio surveillance agent for the flat, who also failed to respond. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

He a had a team on its way to Baker Street, and his tracking showed John's phone still to be in the flat, but the feeling wouldn't go away. He scrolled back through the footage of the CCTVs from up to 3 hours prior. Eventually, he noted an abnormality to one of the shadows along the wrought iron fence beside the front door to 221B. The agent on duty seemed very intent on something across the street and walked out of sight, never returning to his post. Then the feed became hazy for just a moment. But if he zoomed in, adjusted for lighting, utilized a filter for the scattered grays…there it was! The door had opened. He fast forwarded back to just a bit ago and watched the same abnormality take place. Only this time, it was much easier to make out the shadow because it was slowed by something. And it was that _something_ that worried Mycroft, because it was large and being dragged. The night feed of the camera couldn't follow the progress any further than the street.

_Shit_, he cursed inwardly, eyes scanning all the details before him. His people were the best. They would handle this. They would. But would it be fast enough? He shivered at the thought of yet again letting his little brother down. At that thought, something struck him. He quickly brought up the phone records to the doctor's line, hoping to find a clue there. As he read the usage report of the last two hours, his eyes caught something…and his heart dropped. _Oh no_. There, at the end of the notices of outgoing text messages being sent, was a single outgoing call. Not that this was a problem in itself. The issue lay with the fact that the call had not gone unanswered.

"Sir. You need to see this. From a few minutes back," came a voice from behind him, which then directed him to open another CCTV channel that had been brought up by a field agent assigned to a different surveillance objective. And Mycroft watched with a rapidly increasing heart rate as this camera, focused on a section of the road a short distance down from Baker Street, caught unexpected action for this time of night. He zoomed in and observed as the large wooden cellar door exploded outward in a shower of hinges and dust. One could barely even see the origin of such destruction as it completed its flying leap and dashed off reckless into the night, a long, dark coat billowing out behind it… Mycroft dropped his face into his hands, thinking he never should have given the phone back so quickly after leaving the flat. Repeating himself, but out loud this time, he whispered forcefully, "Shit."


	9. Chapter 9

_Earlier that same evening…_

Mycroft left 221B with a seething morass of feelings warring for supremacy within him. This, of course, registered as nothing more than his usual Ice Man façade outwardly. Confronting John had been the only option. He was certain of it. No good would have come from allowing the poor doctor's chosen method of coping to continue. And, more importantly, Mycroft's months of careful digging for the link to Moriarty's last assassin would come to naught if John endangered himself and others by acting in so emotionally labile a manner. Even an amateur could have easily picked up on the alteration in his habits and demeanor of the last weeks; especially _this_ last week.

He climbed inside the waiting car, and it pulled away slowly, sleek in its design and handling. Mycroft looked down at the phone in his hand; not his, but _**his**_. Sherlock's. And he hated himself. Utterly. He had a strong sense of loyalty; and though he and Sherlock had often seemed at odds, deep down Mycroft felt the familial tug to watch over and protect his little brother. Though, since that had obviously failed in the worst of ways, his only method of remaining loyal to his brother at the moment was to watch over John Watson's health where the other could not. Continual texting to a deceased person was certainly not going to lead into health and happiness. But it had seemed harmless at first… Until he discovered John's inner suicidal tendencies, that is. No blame could be placed for the panicked, split-second, decision to respond. What might have happened otherwise?

Unfortunately, it had affected John so profoundly that his obvious change of attitude would lead them all into dangerous territory. And so he had gone over tonight to confront him and reintroduce him to the truth. It was the right thing to do. _But at what cost_? he asked himself. How many times could a man be wounded in spirit and still come back to the living? Mycroft had surreptitiously taken John's Sig with him when he departed. And he deduced that the doctor, being a military man, would not resort to such womanly means as poison or cutting. An agent at the door and one monitoring internal audio should be sufficient to keep an eye on him for now. Tomorrow, Mycroft would see about getting him some professional help. Otherwise, he was afraid he had done his brother no good at all because he would have saved John's life only to leave him as a hollow shell. Void of anything. Empty. Blank. And that, he believed, would hurt Sherlock worse than anything.

He flipped his brother's phone over and over in his hand, thinking. _Can't keep hold of it forever,_ he mused. After all, it had a tracking chip in it that wasn't meant for him anyway. And certain people might take it amiss if this phone was to be suddenly detected as moving about London in the dead of night. So he knocked on the divider glass, which was promptly lowered, and he informed the driver to adjust his course temporarily to "Take us by Agent B-122." Here was another one of his methods for monitoring Dr. Watson, and by far the most effective of the bunch. It required turning back and doubling over their path, but he didn't want to be accused of anything else this night. And so they pulled up to an old building with a rotted "For Sale" sign out front shortly thereafter.

He entered the dank little cellar bunker, replete with rot, cold, and damp. Windowless, it contained only a rickety table and chair, a single man mattress lying flat on the floor, and what appeared to be a combined kitchen/bathroom. No wonder this place hadn't been sold yet. There was a short wooden staircase leading down into it, and he noted thoughtfully that every third stair had been removed; in case of unwanted visitors. He also remembered with a frown how he had not been warned of this the first time he had dropped by. His left shoulder still ached. Finishing with his once-over of the deplorable conditions his people endured, often for very long stretches of time indeed, he refocused his attention on the reason he had come by.

"Only here for a moment," Mycroft said as he tossed the phone onto the mattress. "Do monitor the usage of that device very carefully, won't you?" The other figure in the room barely acknowledged him, just giving a slight nod of the head in exchange as the washed out glare of a computer screen set his features aglow. Mycroft sighed in irritation, "You can't understand what it has cost me to clean this up for you. If you had been properly attending your job, then…" he barely got out. "I will do as I see fit," came the terse interruption, but still the other did not look up. Mycroft patted down his suit, smoothing imaginary wrinkles as he said, "I feel I have just killed a man from the inside. I do not like this, contrary to your opinions me. And I do not derive any joy in knowing that it may only get worse for him."

An uncomfortable silence stretched out between the men. Although, Mycroft got the distinct notion that the uncomfortable feeling only ran one-way. Neither seemed inclined to break the interlude, though, and so the elder Holmes gave up, figuring he had spent too much of his limited time here anyway. He needed to be on with more important work, such as finding his brother's final assassin, not babysitting his overwrought flatmate. He spun on his heel and managed to climb the dismantled staircase without too much difficulty or loss of grace. The door to the cellar banged shut behind him, and he left quickly, returning to his central office for a long night. Behind him, below the ground level of the street, and surrounded by the dark, dank walls of eroded brick, the other man remained at wobbly desk. His eyes strayed once to where the phone of a dead man had been tossed aside. The only connection to his dead friend that John Watson had possessed was now gone. The link broken. And for a fleeting moment, the shine of something other than the LCD shone through the man's eyes as he contemplated the powerlessness and despair of that situation. Then, they slowly returned to the screen, and his work.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John woke slowly to the sound of tapping. _Boots. Definitely boots_. His waking mind warred with unconsciousness as it slowly drifted to the surface of the known world. Then the noise stopped as the tapper recognized his returning consciousness. His mind still felt the sluggish pull of the drugged injection and could barely register the fact that he should have feigned remaining out of it. The best his one-hamster-functioning mind could recognize at the moment was that he was sitting in a low chair, arms strapped tightly to his sides by thick cord running around his torso and through the chair back. His head was pounding and blood thrummed in his ears. He wasn't even fully aware that the person had begun talking to him until the owner of the rhythmic boots came to a stop beside him. "…and even then." A pause. "Are you hearing me, Dr. Watson?" A hand came down and threaded into his hair, grasping tightly, and then twisted his head viciously to the side.

He found himself suddenly staring into the heart of madness. Twin eyes, so brown as to be mistaken for black, burned into him with the feverish intensity of those truly lost to the sane world. They were red-rimmed and bright with an inner fire, an inner hatred. And all of the madness, despair, and desperate animosity of that man's gaze was currently focused solely on one John H. Watson. It was nauseating, the feeling of helplessness that it engendered within him. Having been held prisoner during the war, John had experienced this before, in torturous circumstances. And he fought down the rising tide of mental trauma that accompanied the feeling of being restrained. Instead of focusing on the fear, he tried to assess his captor and surroundings.

The man was of some military origin for certain. Or perhaps militia trained? He had the bearing of an addicted fighter, and the tall, muscled frame to support that addiction. Hair: close cropped against the skull to prevent enemies from catching hold. Clothing: utilitarian with multiple options for hidden weapons. Skin: tanned from extensive work outdoors and crossed with many scars. Hands: one in John's hair, the other holding a goodly sized blade. Expression:…murderous. This man was built for one thing. Killing. And that would be easily indulged in with the doctor so wonderfully restrained and mentally incapacitated. He glanced around himself, ascertaining that he was in some sort of very large room that spanned almost an entire floor of the building they were in. It seemed they were above ground level, too. The only source of light was a small lamp on the table beside them. He could almost make out some sort of large container off to the side. Big enough…for a person to fit in. And something glittered inside it, as if it were filled with diamonds.

His captor noticed his observations and nodded, "Ice bath. Easy and cheap way to make people talk. Ice shocks the system, makes pain more intense…at least at first. Great for punishment. You're an ex-service-man yourself. Good. Then we'll understand one another quite easily I expect, Dr. Watson." The man let go of John's hair and his head fell almost to his chest, so heavy that he could barely lift it on his own in order to maintain line of sight. Facing out the window, the man began speaking again, "My name is Sebastian Moran. And I am involving you in a little revenge that has been a good time in coming." He spun so as to face John fully, face twisting further in its hate. "A few months ago, the _only_ thing I held dear was taken from me. _Taken_! All in but a few moments on a rooftop. And he is now beyond me. Gone, but for his work, which I continue." John strained his limited capacity for paying attention, thinking, _What the hell? Who's he talking about? Sherlock? Surely not_.

"Are you listening to me?!" Sebastian suddenly shrieked, taking a few bounding steps to land a jaw cracking backhand against the right side of the doctor's face. "You will respect him, and _listen_ to what I have to say." John struggled to maintain his line of thought, mumbling, "Who? You mean Sherlock Holmes? He's dead." And John started at the yell of rage that issued forth, almost inhuman in its eruption and tone. "Don't lie to me!" John found himself lifted into the air, chair and all. Sebastian pivoted and took a few steps before dumping the doctor into the ice container. The cold shot through his system and brought his mind to burst through the last barriers of the drug induced stupidity.

He gasped out, "Are you bloody fucking stupid or what?! You're wasting your damn time! I don't even know what the hell you're going on about!" And then his head was pushed under the ice water, and he found himself struggling to keep hold of the small breath he had taken. But then he was pulled to the surface again, and the hand in his hair was shaking him. "If he's out there, you will lure Sherlock Holmes straight to me, and then I can finish Moriarty's work. His final problem. Simple really." He gave a thrust and John's head connected with the side of the bin. Stars burst in his vision as he thought, _Sherlock? What the hell is he talking about?_ And before he could think any better of it, he said, "Sherlock is dead, you idiot. Has been for months." This elicited an almost ghoulish fit of laughter from Moran. "Oh no. I've been watching you, you see." He gestured out the window, which John couldn't see anyway, and said, "Right over there, that's your flat. And I've been monitoring you for a while now. I've seen the act that you seem to forget to put on every now and then. And then the other day you had a visit from the brother that eventually had you dropping all pretenses… No Dr. Watson. I'm not fooled. I know exactly what you're all playing at."

John closed his eyes. _Oh my God_, he thought. _This man is insane, and I am alone with him. No one knows where I am. No one. Damn_. And so he resigned himself to the knowledge that no help would be forthcoming. He decided to just stop talking as well. It only seemed to fuel the madman's ranting anyway. _No reason to try to convince a crazy person that they're crazy, right_? His mind seemed to be slowing from the cold that had invaded his body. He tried desperately to think of something, anything, to do that would stall and/or interrupt the man later when he tired of waiting for a ghost to appear. During this, Moran continued rattling off offences committed against Jim Moriarty by the consulting detective, rationales for his actions, and on and on. It became just a dull buzzing to John, though, as his thoughts began to slip away into dreams again.

"You know what?" came the inquiry from Moran. John barely understood the words, though. "I don't really need you alive after all. Just the fact that you've been taken will flush him out on its own." John's eyes fluttered back open at the sound of a _click_ to see Moran, a good twenty feet away, drawing down on him with a revolver. The angle was bad, and the lighting conditions were horrendous, John was thinking. Then he said out loud, weakly, "Bad…conditions." Moran laughed and replied, "Yes, but I've had a bit of practice for these sorts of situations." And then he smiled, "But I don't care if it's an immediate kill shot or not. The bullet, the blood loss, or the cold will get you within the next little bit. I might even have a little fun betting on which it will be." The combination of drugs, physical abuse, and hypothermia were taking John back down again. _Good thing I'm already lying down. Not far to fall, _he thought as he heard the gunshot. The last thing he saw was the small sparkling fire that erupted from the barrel of Moran's weapon before the impact stole his breath away and darkness claimed his sight.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: So this is a short chapter, but it's a nice tidbit to keep some of y'all from shredding your pillows til I update again. LOL!

The door to 221B Baker Street broke inwards and fell to the floor, sending a shower of plaster bits and dust motes swirling through the air. The tall figure with its long coat streaming out behind it took the stairs three and four at a time. And upon reaching the door into the main living area of the flat, it stopped hard, each hand holding onto opposing sides of the doorframe. One snaked quickly to the side and flicked the switch, sending light forth in all its limited capacity, revealing the horror that he was alone. Alone. "No," he whispered. "John."

The look held within the ever-changing depths of the eyes of Sherlock Holmes verged on the brink of total madness. His dark curls even seemed to participate in the effect, flying about his head wildly as he scanned every available surface of the flat for indications of what must have occurred only shortly before he arrived. Pale skin glistened with sweat that wasn't at all a result of the exertion of his late night dash through the streets. His limbs trembled slightly with the need to do something, _anything_…To Get. John. Back.

He walked briskly over to the carpet by their armchairs, noting a small drop of blood on floor as he passed, _not quite dried_, and a syringe off against the wall. _Drugged then_, he thought. _He'll be helpless_, followed quickly after and almost buckled him. This wouldn't do. It would only slow him down. He stood still a second and gathered his logic, his distance, around himself. Then he opened new eyes onto the scene of the carpeting.

_ -lines-of-dirt-on-the-floor-that-Mrs. -he-was-injected-with-the-drug-back-there, _he glanced back at the blood speck_, -rug-would-have-shifted-as-he-tried-to-control-his-fall. _Sherlock knelt down and placed himself as he would imagine John doing and looked at things from that perspective. _ -further-blood-on-the-carpeting-so-no-further-physical-assault-whilst-here_. He jumped up from his floor position and stared hard at the flooring. _ -his-attacker-is-also-quite-physically-capable-to-have-dragged-a-grown-man-any-length-of-distance. _He walked along the repetitive scuffs that the poor doctor's shoes had left, going as far as the first few stairs._ -indicates-a-possible-hostage-situation-intended-for-bait-or-ransom-of-some-sort-which-is-good-because-it-means-that-his-life-will-have-some-value-to-it-for-the-time-being._

His deductions of the flat concluded, Sherlock began to head out in pursuit. Then he paused for a second. _Need-a-weapon_. But a quick search for John's Sig reminded him that his brother would have taken it already. _Damn_. Then his eyes fell across a most interesting and promising instrument leaning up against the corner, partially hidden behind the door. He hefted it in his hands, remembering the feel of it from a year or so ago. _Yes,_ _this will do quite nicely_, he thought as he adjusted his balance to the feel of the harpoon that he now held. And then he was off down the stairs and out into the street, just another lunatic wielding a weapon meant for besting large sea creatures.

_As-long-as-he-is-considered-of-value-they-will-not-harm-him.I-still-have-time-to-save-him. 't-worry.I-am-coming.I-am-sorry-I-wasn' -sorry.I-wasn' -I-had-been-able-to-discover-him-sooner-or-dove-in-with-more-recklessness…But-I-thought-I-had-more-time-John.I'm-sorry-so-sorry. Sorry-sorry-sorry. -couldn't-it-have-been-me?But-then-you'd-have-come-after-me-and-that-just-wouldn' -were-always-so-loyal-and-this-is-how-I-repay-you?I' -I'm-coming-after-you.I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming_! He repeated the litany over and over in his head as he scanned the street, narrowing in on the fact that since he didn't smell recent exhaust or discern any new tire patterns through the water left on the streets, then they must be housed somewhere relatively close by. He scanned the buildings lined along the opposite side of Baker Street, and his eyes locked onto the winner. Empty for at least seven months, the old three-storied office building was the perfect choice. The upstairs windows would easily allow someone with the correct instruments to observe the flat from afar.

He hurried over to the other sidewalk, making note of all the empty seeming windows of the building in question. He kept to the shadows as he could, his lengthy, dark coat aiding in his camouflage as he traveled along towards his goal. He paused at the first set of doors, checking the latches, then moved on to the second set. A small piece of _this_ handle had been polished by the recent repeated use. He smiled as he slowly, quietly, slid the door latch down to open it. And yes, it wasn't locked. _I am coming, John._ His eyes shown a dark gray, metallic. Flat and nonreactive as the dead, but with a smoldering quality hidden within those silver depths. _And it will take the entire host of Hell's angels combined with the collective combustion of the sun to slow my steps. _Cold, numb, his body shook with rage at what had been taken from him_. And when I find you…and find who did this..._he grasped the length of the harpoon a bit more tightly.…_**Blood**_.


	11. Chapter 11

As Sherlock crept carefully up the stairs to the second floor landing, mind already having worked through the most likely choice of room and floor, he heard the shot go off. His world slowed for a moment, the sound causing a chill of horror to penetrate what he had thought was an impermeable wall of anger and determination. But that sound, that single loud detonation, might signal the end to something greater than he had ever known before, something even _he_ had yet been able to define. And it shattered his perfect concentration and the cold distance he derived from the rage burning within. And so, no longer content to drift silently toward his goal, he finished the stairs and sprinted headlong, heedless of all else but his one purpose: John.

He rounded the last corner at a flat run, imagining he could still hear that shot, and feel it, within his chest as his heart beat frantically against the hurt that threatened to decimate his last defenses. He slid to a stop outside of his chosen location and, contrary to his desires, he lightly grasped the handle. Simultaneously, his other hand clenched the leather grip of the harpoon in anticipation. Taking a steadying breath, he pushed the door open soft as a whisper and glided into the room, becoming instantly hyperaware of his environment.

Immediate and obvious threats were presented first. It was dark but for one small lamp on a desk about fifteen feet inward. And there, perhaps another similar distance away from the desk and standing erect at the window, posed a strange man; or rather, the outline of one. He was mostly cast in silhouette and facing away from the detective, but enough of him remained visible for Sherlock to assess his person for potential dangers; how the clothes hung, the angle of his stance. Finding nothing acutely concerning other than several possible hidden knives, and noting the gun lying openly upon the single desk, he performed a secondary surveillance of the remainder of the room's attributes, eyes falling immediately on the only thing truly out of place in an unused office space. A large low-rimmed bin that contained….John…

"He's dead by now; so it's just the two us," the man said as he gazed down toward the street. He gestured vaguely behind him, "Feel free to check, but I am very good at what I do." Then he snorted and finished with, "Go ahead…you've got the rest of your life."

Sherlock was barely listening as he slid down to kneel beside the ice filled tub of water, harpoon dropping beside him with a clang. He plunged his arms underneath and wrapped them around, pulling John and his accompanying chair forth from the freezing liquid. He slid the ropes over the doctor's head, as they had loosened when part of the seat's back had broken with the impact of being thrown in there in the first place. He laid him out in as straight a manner as he could manage with his now trembling arms, eyes glancing every now and then to ascertain that the silhouette remained in place. His respirations increased as he felt just _how cold_ John's skin was. He saw the entrance wound, just under the clavicle, midway. The water was red-tinged, but the wound was only barely leaking now…or at all.

And then everything locked in place for Sherlock. One moment in time suspended as he recognized something vital to life that was missing. His eyes sought the doctor's chest. He waited as the seconds stretched out before him. Nothing. Motionless. Desperate, he grabbed at the frigid wrist, fighting the panic welling up inside of him, drowning in its intensity. And he counted the seconds as his fingertips sought proof of life:

1…

2…

3…

4…

5…

6…

7…

8…

9…

And he felt, he felt…nothing. The arm fell from his fingers as his brain tried to deny the evidence presented before it. His mind was in complete disarray. Gunshot wound: barely bleeding. Skin temperature: below that necessary to support life. Respirations: Absent. Pulse: Absent. All signs pointed to…to… No. No! He was _here_! He had come! John-should-be-alive-and-tied-up-and-prepared-with-that-look-in-his-eyes-that-said-"I'm-ready-when-you-are"-and-they-should-tackle-this-together-and-get-congratulated-by-Mycroft-after-and-then-go-out-to-eat-and-return-to-the-flat-to-laugh-about-it-over-tea-and-Mrs.-Hudson's-biscuits-and-cake-and-she-would-fret-over-being-woken-at-such-an-hour-but-she-would-dote-over-them-both-while-she-listened-to-them-talk-and-shake-her-head-and-then-he-and-John-would-look-at-each-other-with-that-understanding-and-spark-that-bespoke-a-connection-deeper-than-any-other-that-Sherlock-had-ever-known-and-he-had-heard-someone-remark-once-upon-best-friends-who-turned-out-to-be-soulmates-and-he-had-thought-it-ignorant-and-infantile-but-now-he-wanted-nothing-more-than-to-spend-the-rest-of-his-life-with-that-wonderful-feeling-of-completion-that-came-when-John-was-by-his-side-and-in-his-life-but-now-that-couldn't-happen-because-he-was-too-late-too-late-too-late-TOO-LATE!

The man had turned to face him finally, a smirk barely evident upon his shadowed features. He squinted a bit at having been facing out into the moonlight and now into the darker office space. He cleared his throat, thrilled to finally address the audience he had waited for, his words carefully chosen for their potential emotional damage. "My name is Sebas-Oomph!" he grunted as Sherlock Holmes crashed into him bodily, carrying them both to the floor. Breath whooshed further out of Sebastian as they landed. The detective's hands closed around the assassin's throat, and he began pounding his head into the tiles. Sebastian was a better trained fighter than to let surprise completely defeat him, however, and he broke the hold using both arms up and through and then twisting his larger torso around, almost pinning Sherlock beneath him. But the other rolled away, coming to his feet in a crouch, and then ramming right back in with fists flying into Sebastian's face, throat, and kidneys. The only true protection the larger man had from the repeated blows was his added muscle mass that somewhat dulled them.

Sherlock's mind was in a vicious fog of hate as he threw himself into attack after attack. He may have lacked the mass of the other man, but his training in open-handed combat was far from inferior, actions and reactions playing out in his mind seconds before he completed them, making his attacks seem to flow together as fluidly as a practiced dancer_. Right jab: connect to left cheek. His left, swinging in low: a feint to get closer. Catch left arm by elbow and force upwards creating satisfying yelp. Left hook to right eye: his vision obscured momentarily. Right chop to neck: slight choking noise emitted. Follow quickly with triple jab to nose and chin: end with upper cut from right. Grasp head between hands and pull down: knee to abdomen: repeatedly. Deflect incoming left, right, right crosses: damn, missed one, ouch: delete pain. Duck overhand swipe and twist away to avoid further close-grappling with larger opponent. Feint left kick, follow with right hover-kick to side of head: adequate delivery, repeat when possible. Drop low to sweep leg into knees: target on floor, but up again quickly. Catch him as he bullies in, arms around his neck: twist and throw down to ground, stomp on inner thigh/groin. Attempt same with knee-cap: he rolled, damn. Left kick to right shoulder as he attempts to regain his stance: not quite as effective as hoped: need a more central point of impact._ A roundhouse kick to the sternum threw the assassin back a few paces and had him gasping momentarily before barreling back in, grabbing the detective in an arm locking grapple. They crashed into the wall, and Sebastian's hold loosened a bit when they hit, which was enough for Sherlock to wriggle free and drive the heel of his hand into an exposed nose, the crunch audible. He pushed Sherlock away, sending him tumbling over by the tub and John.

Sherlock clambered to his feet as he felt something _whish_ by his throat, ending in a _thonk_ behind him. He spared a quick glance and saw the knife stuck halfway to the hilt in the wall. "Warning shot," the assassin grinned, blood running down from his nose and onto his chest. He seemed quite unsteady, the detective's repeated impacts finally wearing the larger man down and forcing him to resort to alternative weaponry. The next knife came up from his waist and Sherlock dove to the side, feeling his coat pull as the blade went through. He landed in a roll and came up with the harpoon in hand. His eyes could have burned the solar system for all the fires they held within as he faced this man. John's murderer.

The detective noted the moment when the man's other hand began its path towards the next blade, choosing his timing carefully. He tucked the harpoon under his arm as he began his run, grabbed tightly with both hands on the leather grip, and collided forcefully into the assassin before he could work the next knife into position. They slammed into the wall and each other, hard. And they remained there for a moment, face to face and eye to eye, as if each was measuring the other's determination to die, the resolve to do whatever it takes.

Sherlock was the first to step away, wincing as he did from a deep gash to his shoulder. The knife fell away from Moran's hand where he had brought it up high to throw, clattering to the floor. The detective observed Moran, clinically analyzing the results of his final assault, eyeing the precise angle at which the harpoon entered the bottom of the large rib cage and then into the wall behind him, pinning him up. Still alive, if barely, the madman grinned, bloody froth forming around his teeth. He attempted to whisper, but it was more a gurgle, "Still…got…'im…Final…problem…Jimmm..."

The detective eyed him coldly and analyzed his options. Strangle? Too classic. Shoot? Too boring. Drown? Too easy. Stab? Not good enough! Exsanguinate? Too painless! His mind ran over and over the possibilities. But then he had his answer, everything falling into place within his mind palace and coming forth for his approval. He took a step to close the distance he had put between them, watching the assassin's fingers twitch at his proximity, and he grasped the handle of the reverse-pronged harpoon. He leaned in close to the man's face and whispered, "This…_will_ hurt." And he pulled back a bit to smile eerily into the face of his best friend's killer. Then he put all of his wiry power into dragging the harpoon a bit more sideways through the wall before yanking straight back, all in one tremendous feat of strength born of adrenaline, hatred, and pain. The result of which caught the wiring for the light switch on the end of the metal prongs and pulled them straight into Moran's chest cavity. He grunted and shook as the voltage crackled through his weakened form.

But he embraced death somewhat quickly soon after that shock of additional trauma to his body. And Sherlock then heaved the harpoon fully free from it, allowing the dead man to fall in a heap. He had no more attention to spare for this one, though, as his heart cried out for only one thing…but that thing was gone. Left in its place behind him was an empty shell, once abounding with life. Now…vacant. It was to this vacant shell that Sherlock Holmes relocated himself, and sat by, and cried by, ignoring the wound to his shoulder in favor of the other, deeper one within his heart. Carefully, he removed his long coat and draped it gently over John's lifeless form.

His phone buzzed as he sat staring despondently at his best friend. It was Mycroft, informing him that paramedics and MI6 would be there within five minutes. So he should just hold on. Hold on. But to what? He responded to his brother quickly: _**Finished –SH**_**.** And the phone fell from his fingers. He had nothing to ground him now. Nothing to secure his overburdened mind to. His thoughts were desperate, hysterical, and near-crazed in their force. John, lying there, so cold, pale, and still. His blood…his blood…he reached out a shaking hand and touched it to the seeping crimson ribbon. He pulled his hand back at the strangeness of it, rubbing it between his fingers. Slick, and though warmer than the external temperature, still far too cold to do anything but confirm his nightmare. He brought the blood-stained fingers to his lips, touching them there as his eyes slid closed, and he tried to remember how to breathe.

When his eyes opened again seconds later, they were focused above John's body. Past it, to where Moran lay. And Sherlock's brain flatlined at seeing the cause of his world's end. A red haze brought up the rear of that void and began to fill out his insides with an anger so potent it could be bottled and sold as the Devil's tears. He stood, eyes locked onto the murderer, the filth, that afflicted this room's tiled floor. He crossed to stand over the assassin's corpse, and then bent to pick up the harpoon, running his hands over it as if he held a lover's curves. He licked a bit of John's blood from his lips as the soul fled his eyes in fear of what was replacing it. He lifted the weapon…and brought it down, repeatedly.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The paramedics arrived first, seeing Sherlock, who promptly, and violently, waved them away. He was sitting on the ground beside John, knees drawn up to his chest. One took a few steps toward Moran, stopped, and then decided nothing further was needed, making a hasty retreat. The two who knelt beside John heard Sherlock's whisper of, "He's gone," but ignored him, making him sick inside to watch as John's body was shifted around like a rag doll. His own heart seemed to have stopped, ceasing the pulse of life within him. A stretcher arrived outside of the hallway, and Sherlock could hear additional personnel coming up. He lowered his head between his knees, trying desperately to hold on to what little sanity he had remaining. And then he heard, lightly intrusive at first, but gaining clarity, "..is 30.2 degrees Celsius. Respirations agonal, almost nonexistent; maybe 4-5 per minute and shallow. Grab the ambu and bag him for me, Clark. Pulse is running about 20-30 bpm. Severe bradycardia. Have the pacer and defib ready in case, but let's see if a bit of warming will bring it up first. And Scot, get those damned wet clothes off of him." There was a pause, and Sherlock's head snapped up as the medic finished, "Leave the coat over him, though. It's thicker than the blankets we have, so we'll just pile those on top."

The first beat of Sherlock's restarted heart was the most excruciatingly painful _ka-thump_ he had ever experienced. It felt as though liquefied shards of glass had been pumped through it. And oh, it felt _so good_! His mind suddenly worked again, and it trailed down through its acquired knowledge, things overlooked before due to his extreme emotional state: _Hypothermia 101- subject may present with profound bradycardia, and distal pulses may be diminished and possibly not palpable at all. Adequate cardiac assessment should involve pulse checks at proximal locations, such as the carotid or femoral arteries instead, and should be taken over a minimum of 30 seconds to ensure pulselessness under these conditions. Respirations may be exhibit bradypnea, agonal breaths, or absence. Treatment depends on degree of presenting hypothermia and length of time spent in that condition._

He looked to John, so still and pale, now connected with electrodes and wires, and an ambu mask assisting his breathing held firmly in place over his mouth and nose. And there, on the monitor, the peak and trough of a very slow, but very life-confirming, cardiac rhythm. He crawled closer, extending his hand out and taking the other's chill one in it as they began to lift the doctor onto the stretcher. He smiled, tremulously, fragile, but still there. The one directing the resuscitation activities turned to quickly give him a list of details of what they were doing, where they were taking him; but Sherlock heard only parts. _Still gonna be close. Race against warming versus re-bleeding when circulation returns._ The facts were absorbed, but just not understood at the moment. All he could focus on was John. John. Alive. Barely…but that kept his own heart beating for now.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock remained seated on the floor, still refusing medical attention, legs crossed and arms laid out over his knees. He could still hear the faint siren of the ambulance as it threaded its way through the streets. _John will be fine. He will be fine. And when I get there, we will laugh about all this, and he will ask when the next case will be, and we will plan how to work around his current infirmity. Everything will be as it was before. I am back. I came for him, and he is going to be fine._ He was continuing on in this line of thought when the elder Holmes entered the room.

Mycroft's eyes took in the scene before him stoically, noting that his little brother was plastered head to shoe with blood and…bits. He nodded in greeting as he crossed to stand before him, his dark suit impeccable as always. "I am assuming since you are not being transported to hospital nor attended by medics that this…detritus, covering you is not of your own?" The British Government was silent, awaiting an answer. "It isn't John's?" he added a moment later, a bit perturbed at his brother's silence.

Those grey-blue eyes rose slowly to meet his, then began to turn. In an unnerving fashion, Sherlock's eyes and head both rotated slowly, so slowly, to face another part of the room. Mycroft looked in the direction indicated and took in the damage to the wall, the wiring hanging through it, the body laid out beneath it. He made noise low in his throat, and stepped around Sherlock to investigate, who seemed mostly oblivious to his continued presence. His steps were slow, evenly measured, and he took a deep breath at the carnage displayed at his feet.

Sebastian Moran, what was left of him, was a twisted figurine that had once been human. He looked for all the world like a doll whose stuffing had been pulled, and forcibly, out. His torso was so shredded as to be barely recognizable as much other than a burst meat purse. The spine had been partially pulled through the front of his throat and then left to jut out grossly. The face was remarkably well kept, when considering the state of the rest of the body anyway. It was only bruised and had a few scrapes along the cheek and brow. But then again, Mycroft leaned in closer, noting the distinct lack of a tongue but the presence of a goodly wadding of wire, maybe not so untouched after all.

Mycroft noticed he was crouched next to a long metal instrument. _Looks like a harpoon of some sort. Kind of. Or maybe it used to be._ But now, it was bent viciously in the middle, and the prongs were so out of form as to almost be one complete tangle of steel yarn; probably from repetitive blunt force. Sighing loudly, he pushed up and stood once again, then noted something on the wall beside him. _Well, at least we won't have to go looking for the tongue anymore_, he remarked to himself as he stared at the smallish piece of flesh suspended from a dagger driven into the wall.

He turned to face his brother with a heaviness of thought, "Sherlock…really? All this?" He gestured around inclusively at the gory scene beside him.

"He hurt John," was the only reply. Sherlock was now faced back the way he had been gazing when Mycroft had first entered. He looked so small and fragile sitting curled into himself like that. _Deceptive is my brother_, thought the elder Holmes. Then he crossed to stand before him, the better to hold his attention.

"His _tongue_ is staked to the wall; and those fingers have been surgically dissected at the proximal joints. I can't see those, among other things, as being anything remotely defensive in nature." Something occurred to him then. "Though I hate to imagine where his digits might be at this moment…" Sherlock grinned sickeningly in response before speaking.

"He _hurt_ John," repeated the dark haired detective, voice calm in its explanation of what he believed to be a rationale course of actions.

And there it was. His brother's potential for madness, finally laid bare. Sally Donovan would claim she had known all along the things he was capable of. But even she couldn't dream up his true potential. That dark side of himself that he had kept so well reigned in. That was held in check by his brother once, and then more so later by John Watson's grounded and loyal presence. And now, it had finally made an appearance when the detective found himself in an untenable emotional crisis of epic proportions. Truly, his capacity to become the stuff of nightmares was terrifying in its breadth and scope. The elder Holmes dropped a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, shuddering inwardly as he contemplated the terrible possibilities. _Oh_, thought Mycroft, _what has been broken here_? And the next thought followed quickly on its heels as he observed the dead look reflecting out of his brother's eyes. _And can it be fixed_?


	13. Chapter 13

Persuading Sherlock to stop off for a change and a wash to remove all of the blood and…pieces, from his person became a battle of epic proportions. His mind had been set on following right after John to hospital, the better to see him alive and safe again. Eventually, the persuasive techniques degraded into the use of five agents, a pair of handcuffs, some loose bungee rope, a sheet, and much yelling. The yelling ended soon after Mycroft threatened one of his socks to be used as a gag. The car ride thereafter was…tense; full of a hateful silence that did not end when they arrived at their destination. And the restraining devices had only been removed once the detective was securely within the undisclosed location, with only one available exit currently blocked by one of the now-battered and beleaguered agents.

Mycroft sat, poised as ever, on the edge of a chair as he watched Sherlock emerge from the back room toweling off the final bits of his hair that had stubbornly retained water. The top portion of his deep blue shirt was damp from just such stubbornness. _Hair as obstinate as the man it sprouts from_, Mycroft observed with amusement. The towel then hit the elder Holmes in the face, and his bemusement ended quickly as Sherlock jumped right in with, "John?" _Translation_: When the bloody hell will we be leaving to see John in the hospital, we should have already been there, what are we waiting for?

"Patience, little brother. He will be fine; and you wouldn't have been able to see him immediately anyway while they get him stabilized. He may need surgery, too, depending on where that bullet ended up. So it was best to take our time. Clean up. Plan ahead." And then he looked at Sherlock intently before saying, "And calm down."

Sherlock stared down at the floor, obviously not listening to anything further his brother had to say. He was probably content to stand statue still until they left, hoping it would unnerve Mycroft enough that he would choose to leave sooner. The elder Holmes used this time to study his brother, however. The movements of the younger man had been strange, as if he was playing at human functions and gesture. He watched the now grey eyes, still showing that flat deadness within them that put him in mind of certain serial killers and murderers he had come in contact with in the past. This would not do, letting him continue on in this, this…mood, trance, fugue, whatever it was. He felt he was watching his brother slip away into madness. And for what? John Watson was alive. This needed to stop. _Now_.

He pushed up and came to stand before Sherlock, who didn't seem to register him on even the most meager of levels. The younger man continued to stare through the floor as if it would offer up all the answers to the universe. A very angry universe if the set of his mouth was anything to go by. "Sherlock," Mycroft tried at first. Then he reached out an arm and placed a hand upon the other man's shoulder, repeating, "Sherlock?" Still nothing. He gave a squeeze and a shake. Silence. And then, suddenly, Mycroft's hand dropped from the shoulder it held while his other shot out and up, cracking across the detective's cheek. The dark hair snapped to the side, and the eyes, those eyes, swiveled back to pin him with their gaze. But the British Government refused to be intimidated.

"Stop it. _Now_, Sherlock. You've lost it a bit back there. Understandable. But that's over now. We've got to go and see John," he finished with a knowing look, then said, "And we wouldn't want _him_ to see you like this. Would we?"

The eyes boring into Mycroft softened a bit at the mention of John, and then blinked rapidly, seeming to come back to himself. A certain cognizance returned to their previously blank state. The detective straightened up, tugged his blue shirt as if it had mismanaged itself whilst he had been standing perfectly still, and nodded ever so slightly. His elder brother smiled at him, mostly genuine, and then pivoted to lead the way out to the waiting automobile. To John.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

This time of night, or morning depending on one's perspective, had the hospital emptied of most staff and visitors. Lights on every floor were dimmed, and the hallways were vacant and echoed every footstep throughout. Sherlock and Mycroft were the only ones to arrive at the waiting room yet, though Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly had also all been notified through various channels of communication. The nurse took their names down and asked them to follow her. Mycroft interjected, though, stating that he would wait for the others and let Sherlock go on ahead, knowing that the detective would wish to be the first to see John anyway.

But instead of leading him to a cold and clinical hospital room, Sherlock found himself deposited in a "family conference room" awaiting the arrival of the doctor who had received and treated John. Not good. These rooms were never where _good_ news was given. This was where they put you to keep you calm while they…. They brought people here to give them news that…that… He closed his eyes. _I am overreacting. I am still fighting that assassin in my head. Need to relax._ There's plenty of other reasons to use the room after all. So as not to disturb other patients, perhaps? _But it's the middle of the night, so who else would we disturb_? To provide privacy for disclosure of health information? _Again, who would be here to overhear it_? His long fingers gripped the shabby sofa violently, digging deep as he fought to calm his now raging mind.

It was like this, curled into a tight ball with eyes shut, that the doctor found him. And told him. And his world…stopped. Because John…had stopped. Had died. Shortly before he and Mycroft had arrived, his heart had given out from blood loss and cold exposure, she explained with a soft, practiced voice. And they had let him go. Something about a DNR form. "Dr. Watson came in about four weeks back maybe, and signed the papers; said he wanted to be let go if he got the chance. He was very adamant about it." Sherlock barely heard; his mind palace, the carefully constructed mental fortress, was falling. "He said he had no family left to speak for him if something ever happened, so he wanted to get his wishes legalized to prevent any mishaps." The doctor had paused for a moment in her speech, studying him before finishing with, "I'm so sorry for your loss. Were you related?"

Sherlock's throat almost closed completely as he tried to find some way to respond. And even his best effort barely made it past hearing range. "I'm…I'm his…I'm…" _Best friend, compatriot, confidante, colleague, partner-in-crime, comrade, stealer of jam, wearer of the funny hat, crap telly mate, blogging subject, flatmate, fallen hero… I'm…I'm…_ "Nobody…" he whispered. The doctor seemed to attribute his reaction and response to the grieving process, and then asked if he would like to see John, to say goodbye… He nodded, but he found that his limbs were difficult to control. His motions were wooden, false, as he followed her out of the conference room.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

He was led to the door, the doctor having explained that all of the equipment had been left in place as John would be a coroner's case due to the nature of his death. Then she left him to gather his courage and enter on his own. He stood without the door for several minutes, trying every way he knew how to reason with himself. They had known this might happen to them one day. In fact, it _had_ happened already, only Sherlock hadn't really been dead. This time, though, the loss seemed too staggering, the cost too high. The world was a dark and miserable place without the likes of John H. Watson to be his sunlight and guiding force. _Nothing will ever prepare me for what's beyond that door, so just get it over with_, he thought, and he stepped forth.

Everything was dim, polished, sterile; his eyes took in the periphery first. The monitor was flat-lined on all accounts: cardiac, respiratory, CO2, pulse ox, etc. None registered anything, but they confirmed everything…and all were attached to the man in the bed. He finally allowed his eyes to look upon John's form. And then he couldn't move them from there. He felt he would spend the rest of his days viewing this moment. John, lying on the hospital bed. John, pale and cold, alone. John…gone. How this brought closure to others, the detective had nary a clue, as he could scarcely believe that this body in front of him wasn't going to jump up any second now, breathing, moving, living…

He stopped at the foot of the bed, looking down at his best friend, trying not to let his mind play tricks on him as he attempted to form coherent thoughts once more. But, contrary to the last time he had thought John dead, this time his brain seemed to slow to a crawl. His mind palace was in tatters now, with only a basement left to it. What did one do when faced with this situation? Ah…speak. That was what _people_ did, was it not? So he tried.

"John, I…" he paused, breathing deeply. "I'm not good at this, but I know you deserve better than a wordless passing." A tear broke free from Sherlock's eye; more to follow. "You were always the best of me. Somehow you reached through and pulled me back to myself every time I was in danger of becoming lost. You defended me where others would never dare, not even myself. You kept after me to complete the most menial of things, such as eating, because you cared enough that you didn't want to see me end up passed out again in the middle of the street. You watched after me in every way a person can be looked after. There was a time when I found it distracting. But I have since come to appreciate the quiet ways of your friendship, the support you give. You, are what makes me human, John." He fidgeted with his hands, tears racing each other down the now-pallid features. "And now my humanity has fled me."

Sherlock stood still for a bit, regaining his track of thoughts as the unfamiliar and overwhelming emotions swept through his blood, heart, and soul. He opened his mouth to begin again, his eyes closing as he prepared to say his final farewell, "John, I truly do not know…" he had started to say, when he heard something. His voice faltered, petering off into the still air as he listened. Short, sharp whuffs of air in a familiar cadence. _Laughter_! His eyes flew open to see John's own deep blue ones focused on his as the sandy haired man continued to chuckle, eventually wearing him out of breath. Sherlock could do nothing but stare in shock, statuesque in his surprise.

John finally caught himself long enough to gasp out, "How's it feel, eh, you bloody git? Got _you_ this time, eh?" More low laughter. "You think I could pass up this opportunity? Oh, I'm hurt up pretty bad, yeah. But I told the staff here what I wanted, and they, well…they all know me…and they know about you, and what happened. So they agreed to the sham." John watched as Sherlock continued to remain frozen. "Oh, on to this sort of thing, are we? Well, I can wait." He leaned back into his pillows, wincing as he did so. His shoulder was killing him! _Same damn shoulder, too_!

Perhaps ten to fifteen minutes later, Sherlock emerged from his fugue-like state with a rapid-fire series of inquiry.

"So no one else knows of this little farce you just did?"

"No, Sherlock. Just us. Figured it'd be an inside thing, right?"

"Just the staff knows? Not Mycroft, not Lestrade?"

"Geez; no. I just told you that. I only came up with it on the way here. Seemed too good a chance to pass up getting you back the same way."

"So we aren't going to _tell_ anyone either, right?"

"Of course not. Look, I'm _sorry_. I can't believe I'm actually apologizing to _you_ for turning the tables, but there it is. I'm sorry."

Sherlock stared at him with an intensity to rival that of the stars on a clear country night, then said, "Yes. You will be." And then he turned smartly and sped out of the room, leaving John to wonder just what in the hell was going on inside his mad flatmate's head. But then, who could ever know that? He settled back down against the mattress. He'd get over it and be back. Just have to wait.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

A short few hours later, when visiting hours were officially open, John's nurse informed him of a small party waiting to see him. He smiled and told her to let them back. God, but he was bored. No wonder patients were always so grouchy! He arranged his covers and things out of the way so as to better interact with his guests.

Mrs. Hudson came first, followed by Molly and then Lestrade. All offered him hugs. Well, Lestrade shook his hand. Then Mycroft could be seen from the doorway, holding back a bit. John understood how uncomfortable it must be for him, so he nodded to show that he understood and appreciated the show of support. It was greeted by a thin-lipped smile, fairly genuine if he was to be the judge of it. They all asked the usual questions of how he was feeling and when he'd be discharged. He laughed with them a bit and joked, enjoying the attention for once. And then his last visitor arrived.

Sherlock entered the room, almost gliding through the crowded little space, ever graceful. His long coat splayed out on each side to reveal the dark purple shirt he had always seemed so fond of. Truly, he looked every inch the dashing consulting detective, ready to swoop in and rescue, deduce, or experiment at a moment's notice. He smiled down at John as he came to the side of the bed, and his eyes swept the rest of the room's inhabitants. All eyes focused on him, as usual, the stealer of the show. His smile broadened, and John thought he could see a glint of something mischievous within the depths of those silvery-blue orbs.

In fact, John was about to ask what was so damn amusing when Sherlock suddenly reached out, curling both long arms underneath the doctor, pulling him up off of the mattress, earning a grimace for the shoulder. "Sherlock, what the…" he tried, but his lips were suddenly covered by the detective's own, which caused an eruption of gasps around the room. His mind imploded, and he stopped breathing, which didn't deter the detective one bit as he kept at it for a good twenty seconds or so, eventually parting with a final chaste kiss and gently laying John back onto the bed.

The doctor's eyes remained as wide as physically possible, and his lungs finally made the decision to bring in new air. He could hardly move on his own now, let alone form coherent thoughts and translate them into audible language. He could partially see the shock registered on everyone's faces as they stood mutely watching the scene unfold. But Sherlock, still mostly leaned down over John, simply smiled, deducing the warring and confused thoughts. The dark haired man leaned forward to bring his lips beside John's ear, breath ghosting over its surface as he spoke softly so only he could hear, "Figured this could be another little '_inside thing_' right, John? Check. Mate."

E/N: Hope everyone enjoyed how I ended it. I couldn't resist getting Sherlock back for the shit he pulled. LOL! Anyway, I'm game for a fluffy-fluffy epilogue if anyone's interested? Just let me know.

*Also, for those who couldn't work it out: Sherlock **IS** the one who sent those three response texts to John when he was fiddling with his gun and feeling suicidal. Mycroft then found out, was pissed, and took Sherlock's phone in order to create the ruse he used to disabuse John of Sherlock being alive. So Mycroft lies and says it was him all along, and he sends that text with Sherlock's phone in front of John to lend his claim credence. He just repeats the last text he sees in Sherlock's message list to John in order to further convince. Then, he leaves the flat and returns the phone to Sherlock, admonishing him at the same time. Tadah! Any other questions, just ask!


	14. Epilogue Part 1

**Epilogue Note: **So, I got some reviews and PMs asking for a nice fluffy epilogue. Well okay then. This is the first part. Y'all decide how it's gonna end, though. Let me know…nice and sweet…or with a dash of dirt thrown in? ;)

They had been home for about three days after the ten John spent in the hospital. Some incidental surgery to repair the upper lobe of his lung and retrieve the offending bullet had gone well. His shoulder had been dislocated, too, but that was easily corrected while already under for the surgery. His left fibula was fractured, and so he had a cast in place. He was accustomed to using a cane to get around, though, so it was no huge impediment. Nope, he was in excellent shape for someone who had gone through what he had. His only trying issue at the moment was one very odd, slightly "off" Sherlock Holmes.

When John had initially awoken in the hospital, prior to seeing Sherlock, he had been informed by the assigned agent of the "government's" efforts on his behalf, and also of Sherlock's reemergence. That news alone had almost shocked him back into unconsciousness at first, but following on the heels of surprise was a smoldering anger that surprised even himself. However, having a couple hours of time to himself while being treated by the doctors and nurses at the hospital, he reduced the anger to a simmer…and had masterminded what he had thought was an excellent plan for revenge on the detective.

His plan had lasted all of fifteen minutes maybe. He had thought it perfect, faking death for the man who had done the very same to him. However, seeing Sherlock so lost and distraught in that tiny hospital room, hearing the detective's words of sorrow over what he had thought was his dead best friend, and literally feeling the pain seeping out of the dark haired man…it had brought back all too vivid memories of his own experience immediately after The Fall. And he reminded himself in those few minutes that Sherlock had not Fallen out of spite or as a joke. And so he quickly took pity on the younger man and revealed his sham for what it was. What the detective was unaware of, though, was that those first few noises he had heard in John's room, were in fact NOT laughter, but tears that John quickly turned into chuckles in order to cover for it.

Sherlock's reaction to this ruse was unexpected (if anything was ever even considered _expected_ in the first place with him). He had very obviously been shocked, had retreated into himself, and then had left the room for hours until final returning with others during regular visiting hours. What had he done during that time? John had barely been able to keep from drifting off while pulling the ruse, and he had fallen asleep swiftly after Sherlock's departure. And then…then, the detective had come back, and in front of everyone, had locked lips with him in a most familiar and possessive manner. Anyone watching would think they had been intimate prior to that singular kiss. Which was rather the point of the retaliatory effort, he supposed. But why? Why choose _that_ as a method of revenge? Sherlock never did anything without careful analysis first, so there had to be some totally mental reasoning for it beyond simple revenge. No one had ever said anything about it; and as typical Brits, neither did they.

And then there were these first few days back from hospital. The detective had been acting somewhat out of character for himself since John got back home. He picked up some of his messes. He warned Mrs. Hudson before she opened the fridge. He didn't shoot anything. And…John felt as though he was being watched constantly; though he hadn't actually caught those eyes on him yet, he would stake money that they _had_ been. Had those few months of almost-solitude really changed the other man so much? Or was there something deeper here to consider?

He sighed to himself. Not getting anywhere with these thoughts, and he had been over them for almost the last two weeks. _Time to change my train of thought; distract myself from all of this_. He was sitting on his chair across from Sherlock, who seemed absorbed in polishing and restringing his violin, it having been neglected while he was…away. John took the opportunity to study him, really study Sherlock Holmes, while he was totally engrossed in something and unlikely to notice.

_I still can barely believe he's right here, sitting across from me, as if no time has passed at all_, he thought. _Same mannerisms, same quirks, same curious child-like gaze when I correct something socially unacceptable, same dislike of boredom, same fluid and graceful motions, same_….he trailed off…_Sherlock_. He had missed him so much, and he wanted to spend every minute in his presence, assuring himself that this was real, _he_ was real, alive… He must have stared a bit much because the detective's eyes flicked up to land contact upon his own, and that mouth quirked up in a half-smile before he glanced back down to the instrument again. "John, I can hear you. I'm still here."

_Damn the man_! But then John had an inward laugh as he turned his attention to the paper he had been pretending to be interested in before. How he had missed this! It felt like time had stopped before The Fall and had now picked up again with them. He smiled at the thought that they could now get on with their lives in relative safety since the last of Moriarty's network had been taken down. And with the destruction of that intricately involved web, the truth had been allowed to surface, and Sherlock's name was cleared. He could even start working with the Yard again soon. John got up from his perch to make some afternoon tea, frowning down at the annoying cast as he did. _Well, at least I managed to stop thinking about…about…what was it again?…Oh. Damn it all_!

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The afternoon passed uneventfully, with John logging on to his blog to finally update whatever followers were still out there with the good turn of events. Sherlock finished with the violin and composed before retiring to his room for a while. John found that Mrs. Hudson had once again been over and left two wrapped plates for them. Chicken and some sort of rice and vegetable mixture. Compared to what he had thought they would have, it was a veritable feast, he mused as he gazed in horror at their empty fridge. _Would've been just jam sandwiches, I guess. Great. Got to run out tomorrow so we don't both starve_.

He heated his plate and called down the hallway, "Sherlock! Mrs. Hudson's been by again. Chicken plates!" It seemed the other man had hidden away purposefully, though John had no proof, just a gut feeling. To put it simply, retreating to his room just wasn't something Sherlock had generally done before at this time of day, and so it struck John as strange where in other people it would have gone unnoticed. Perhaps the younger man had perceived that John's attention had fallen on his newly acquired fidgetiness? Well, no bother. Sherlock was Sherlock, and that meant to expect the unexpected. He retrieved the plate with utensils and headed back into the living area, depositing himself quite ungracefully onto the couch. _Who's got time to be graceful with a bloody cast on anyway_? he grouched. _Have to thank Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, though, maybe ask if she needs anything done._ Truly, without her help, he was quite sure that Sherlock would have tried feeding him kitchen mold and cobwebs before he'd ever deign to take himself down to the Tesco. Intellectual stimulation was all good for the detective as far as victuals went, but John desired actual substantive food.

He was almost finished with half his plate when Sherlock's door finally banged open. The dark haired man glided through the kitchen, sweeping up his plate, and bringing it with him. John raised an eyebrow at the cold plate as the other man deposited himself on the other end of the couch and began to pick over the food with just his fingers. Another new oddity taken on. Sherlock seemed to be fine with the arrangement, however, so he made no comment.

"What are we watching?" the detective inquired.

"Dunno; I was thinking."

"Were you?" John caught the smirk in the reply and glanced over just in time to see a glint of amusement before the gray eyes returned to the TV.

"Anyway, looks like just some talk show. People come on, tell their issues, others offer advice, and sometimes scandals are uncovered. Seen a couple of good rows on these before," clarified John when looked to see what was on.

"Dull."

"Well, they can't all have interesting and intriguing lifestyles like us, sitting here with cold chicken plates." And he could just barely see Sherlock's mouth quirk upwards at his comment.

They continued their verbal sparring game over the merits of the available shows until John's head started drooping. He had placed the plate on the low table before him so he could lean back more into the couch. He was warm. He felt safe. His best friend was alive and beside him arguing about crap telly like old times. He fell asleep quite content with the way things were going, only barely cognizant any longer of how Sherlock's eyes seemed to linger on him when he thought he wasn't looking. _Have to worry about that later,_ he thought when he drifted off. _Probably going to have a go at some experiment on me. Might wake up in a cold bath of gelatin with half my organs removed and wearing a gorilla costume_…

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John woke up about three hours later feeling quite cozy indeed. Which was strange for this time of night when he usually got chilly and pulled up an extra blanket. He reached out and pulled the cover a bit more over his chest as he snuggled his way deeper into the breathing pillow… His eyes snapped open, _Breathing __**pillow**_?! Surprise woke his mind enough for him to take stock of his situation. He was face first into a silky soft maroon shirt that moved slowly up and down with the inhale and exhale of one deeply unconscious consulting detective.

He was left side down, with his torso twisted in to face into the living "pillow." He reached up from his left side to touch the hand that was not his own, which was draped down his right to end on his abdomen. His mind still not catching up with events yet, he flexed the fingers of his right hand and found them to be entangling themselves in that same maroon shirt, but at the back of the detective's body. Sherlock's right leg ran along the back of the couch behind him, with the other draped along his front and eventually hanging down to the floor. He didn't know where the man's left hand was, and he didn't want to either. Getting out of this without alerting the other man was paramount.

He tried every gentle removal technique he could fathom with little to no success. The detective's mystery left hand made an appearance as he tried to shift into a more powerful escape position. It came around and over to rest in the low curve of his spine, pulling him even tighter into the delicate heat of Sherlock's middle. _Oh God. Why? There's got to be some other quiet torture besides setting me up like this with my best mate_? he pled to any available deity. Or even to a stone-deaf, crippled demi-god; he wasn't about to be picky in who answered his prayers. As if in answer to his plea, the detective's hand came sliding up along John's back and into his hair, lightly petting through it repeatedly. It was oddly comforting and made him want to…_NO! No falling asleep_! But his body was still easily fatigued, and this was so comfortable and _warm_. Surely it wasn't totally bad to just hug your best friend, right? Even if the "hug" lasted an extended period of time, while lying horizontally together, with arms wrapped tightly around one another, and a hand running through your hair in a most pleasing manner… _Oh, shit_…

***So do y'all want a cotton candy sweetness ending? Or do you want something a little more twisted? I'll be waiting…


	15. Chapter 15

_Damn it damn it damn it, DAMN IT!_ John recited over and over as he fought against the opposing views within his own head, all the while snuggled down into the warmth and life of Sherlock's welcoming, if unconscious, embrace. The dual voices felt like they were splitting his sanity in half.

_He's your best friend!_

_Exactly; and that's why this will fit so well._

_This isn't what flatmates and best friends do!_

_Precisely..._

_He's asleep, and therefore, doesn't even know he's doing this!_

_And how do you know this?_

John stopped arguing with himself for a moment to intake the data he needed to refute his other side's claim of the detective knowingly cuddling him. He outwardly observed for a bit. _You see. There, he's obviously breathing slowly, just like…wait a moment… _Sherlock had always had this weird sort of not-quite-a-snore-but-almost-a-rumbling-purr noise when he slept. The doctor had heard it many a time due to the dark haired man's propensity for falling asleep all over the living area. _I don't hear it. I don't hear it! But wait, that proves nothing but a well-cleared airway_. He peeked his eye open and up in as unobtrusive a manner as possible, getting an odd viewing of the other man's features while trying to determine whether they were the features of an alert being or not. He gave up after a bit, though, returning his head to its original resting place.

"John."

He froze as the low baritone intruded on the silence. Was the other man sleep-talking? Was he _awake_? Was John just hearing all kinds of things now?! _Crap, now I really have split my sanity!_

"Quit thinking so much and go back to sleep," came a barely audible reply that ruffled the hairs on top of his head as Sherlock sleepily tugged him closer (if _closer_ was possible.) John could think of nothing to do but comply for the moment, being shocked stupid, and soon he began to hear the low purring noise he had sought earlier. _Great. I'm trapped in the cuddly death-grip of a self-admitted sociopath_. _He probably even thinks this is an okay thing to do. So he'll get used to it. Then he'll be wanting his 'John pillow' every bloody time he lays out! Well, could be worse…_ And then he mentally recoiled at his seeming complacency at remaining in this position and possibly doing so again in the future; so he resumed his internal debate.

_He's still to be considered half-asleep, so he doesn't really know what he's doing after all._

_Really? So the man who is aware of everything isn't aware of __**this**__? Who are you kidding?_

_But he's a man! Another bloke! I'm not gay!_

_Why label? This is Sherlock bloody Homes! How do you even describe him as a person, let alone a datable person?_

_But he's probably just experimenting, or bored, or, or, something…surely he doesn't mean anything __**real**__ by this?_

_Why not? Just because you're too afraid to admit your own feelings…_

_What?! What __**feelings**__?! How can there __**be**__ any feelings? I'm not gay; he's asexual. __**What**__. __**Feelings**__?!_

_The ones you're arguing over so loudly right now so that you don't have to face them._

_What? No. But I…I'm…I… Oh, bollocks…shit…_

There it was. As soon as he shut up, he knew. He had lost. Yes, there were feelings. Long repressed and half-strangled, but they were there. This, however, did not comfort him, it scared him shitless. And now his mind took another path of worry. _What if Sherlock finds out? Oh God, he'll never understand. I'll be some experiment to him, to pick away at until he's bored again, and then where will I be? I'll have lost my best friend, __**and**__ I'll be heartbroken all at once. And since I'll have lost my best friend, there'll be no one to talk to about it. Oh, the irony… _ He reevaluated his current sleeping situation. _Gotta get out of here. Now_.

He rolled and twisted, mostly falling off of the couch, but still managing to disentangle himself from those wiry limbs. He landed with a thud, and the jostling woke his quarry. Those silver-blue windows alit on his own, and they stared at each other as if from across a great expanse, neither saying a word, but both fearing the silence. And so John did what any smart soldier would do who was outclassed and outmaneuvered…he ran. Kind of.

Actually, he more managed to limp quickly to the hallway, planning on retreating to his room until he had thought things over. Once the door was securely locked in between himself and his enticing problem, things would be easier to work out. _Wait? Did I just think 'enticing?' About Sherlock? Ah, double shit._ He was about to pass through the door frame when he was hauled around by the shoulders and lightly slammed against the wall beside it.

John found himself once again staring into the abyss of those hypnotic eyes. Sherlock's left hand was twisted into the shoulder of his jumper while the other rested its palm flat against the wall beside the doctor's head. Those eyes were wild and full of confusion. And those lips, so close to his own… As if reading his mind, the detective's eyes flicked down to John's own lips and then back up. So quick it could almost go unnoticed. But it didn't. _Oh, my God_, John thought. He wasn't sure if he was ecstatic or angry about this. But he was definitely afraid, and the nervous energy that fear created was starting to work its way into the observable realm in the form of an ever-so-slightly-tremoring frame. So many ways this could go wrong. Especially since he had no clue if the other man was feeling similar…no, wait. John cursed himself for being so stupidly blind as it came over him in a wave of comprehension. The hundreds of little things that Sherlock had often done, only for him, that told him exactly what he needed to know concerning the detective's shared feelings. _How did I miss this_? It was just that the poor emotionally-inept younger man had no experience here, and so he showed it in the only ways he knew how. Suddenly, John found himself functioning as a Holmes translator:

Sherlock making him tea: _I love you_.

Watching crap telly: _I love you_.

_Not_ removing all the bristles from John's tooth brush…again: I love you.

Asking his opinion at crime scenes_: I love you_.

_Not_ rearranging the doctor's entire bedroom while he slept…anymore: _I love you_.

Moving experiments so he could use the kitchen for a bit: _I love you_.

Bringing a blanket when he fell asleep on the couch_: I love you_.

_Not_ shooting the wall: _I love you_.

Sharing small, half-smiles in the back of a cab: _I love you_.

Reading a book on the solar system: _I love you_.

_Not_ breaking his laptop: _I love you_.

Leaving him a bit of milk that wasn't full of arses and elbows or what-have-you: _I love you_.

Trusting him with seeing all of this: _I love you_.

Holding all of it in because John always adamantly states that he's not gay: _I love you_.

Practically eviscerating an explosive-laden jacket in effort to remove it: _I love you_.

Falling from a rooftop….: _I love you, John_…

_Oh Sherlock, it just never occurred to me. I didn't know. I wonder, though…do you? Have __**you**__ recognized all these things?_ It was difficult to decipher anything from that manic gaze, though. _Shit, why's he just staring at me? Is he off in his mind palace again? _It had been almost a full minute of eye contact now, he was sure of it. Getting uncomfortable…_ What the hell can he possibly be thinking of here_?

...

Sherlock trapped the doctor between himself and the wall, pinning him down with his stare alone. John wasn't supposed to have woken yet. _The amount of powder I put in that rice should have had him out for the rest of the night._ But now here he was with a dilemma brewing. Why did he do these things anyway? Why sneak glances at the other man? Why retreat to his room to get away from the all-encompassing thought patterns of nothing but John? Why drug his best friend just to see what holding him would feel like? _Why do John's lips look so. damn. good_? Why, why, why, why, why, why?!

_You know why, Sherlock; you're just avoiding the answer because it's alien to you._

_Shut up, Mycroft. Leave me to work out my own problems._

_Oh no, brother dear, I wouldn't miss __**this**__ for the world._

_Miss what?_

_Why, your first kiss._

_What?!_

_It is, isn't it? Your first time?_

_I haven't ever before, if that's what you're asking, but I fail to see…_

_Exactly; you fail. to. see. I am not possessed of this particular disadvantage, though._

_Oh yes, and I'm sure your vision is quite fine._

_It is indeed. In fact, I see more than just your first kiss here, Sherlock. Another first as well. But it already came before this._

_What are you blathering about? Just speak plainly, or leave here at once! _

_Love, Sherlock. Your first love is before you as well._

The detective's mind recoiled from the conversation for the time being. Alien to his rational mind and logical thinking, the declaration of love from his subconscious came as a blow to his already crumbling self-control. Did he? Really?! How could this have happened?! He was the one above it all. Immune to complications of the heart. Not normal. Not boring, dull, monotonous _normal_! And yet, it didn't feel boring. It felt…it felt…

_Helloooooo, Sherlock! Did you miss me? Terribly?_

_What in bloody hell are you doing here in my head? I'd rather Mycroft berate me than you!_

_Oh, now, that's not polite. You should speak more respectfully to your betters._

_Better? You're dead. I'm not. How is it that you're any better off?_

_Alive is booooooring! I told you so, and now look…I get to invade your actual thoughts. Seems a win to me. Mmmm, but it is getting a bit dull in here, what with your pet and all._

_Leave him out of this! And get out of my head!_

_Oh but I can't, Sherlock. I came to see you fall again._

_What?_

_I still owe you a fall. The first didn't stick. So here's an even better one... _

_What are you on about?_

_He'll make you dull. He'll make you…ordinary. It's perfect. My perfect revenge._

_You're wrong! John Watson makes me better. He improves my condition, not impedes it. _

_Wrong. He'll be the end of you. The end of __**this**__._

_No, he is warm and good! He is strong and loyal!_

_You…_

_He is my anchor in the worst of storms!_

_Will…_

_He is my friend! He feels like home! _

_Fall…_

_He cares for me; maybe even loves me!_

_Fall…_

_And I…_

_Fall…_

_I…_

_Fall…_

_I love him, too…_

_Fall…_

_I love him…_

_Fall now…_

_I love him…_

_I love him…_

_I love him…_

"I love you," whispered forth from Sherlock's lips just moments before they connected with John's. And it was like thunder and lightning without sound, but just as powerful. The impact occurring within the very center of their beings. It thrummed its way through both men and back again, returning a harmony to each that neither had known was missing. The force of a thousand years of humanity felt like it was forcing its way into Sherlock's soul as he wrapped his arms around his friend, his love. Painful, but in an excruciatingly beautiful manner. The doctor's arms mimicked his own, coming around his back and tugging him bit closer and somewhat downward, deepening the kiss into one that, if measured in joules, could have leveled a good-sized metropolitan city. It felt so perfect, so right. Like achieving a new level of clarity._ If this is normal…if this is dull…then it is wonderful._ And he thought that perhaps Moriarty may have been right. Perhaps he may _have_ fallen. But he wasn't afraid anymore, because John Watson had caught him. He always would.

**A/N:** So I've got ideas for a short dirty chapter to follow this one for those of you interested. For those who aren't, this little bit should end it quite nicely for you instead, so don't read the last chapter when I get it posted. ;)


	16. Epilogue Part 3

**A/N:** Whoa. Ended up being waaaay longer than I thought it would be. I'm sure y'all won't mind, though! Brace yourselves…and bring a towel!

They each knew that the kiss would end eventually. And they would then have to face each other. Face the possible aftermath. Make the life decisions that seemed so far away at just this instant in time. Sherlock thought that if he could capture this moment within a globe of amber, he would secret it away within himself, taking it out to look at only in the darkest of times…to remind him of the existence of light. His light. His John. But as dreams were not in the habit of turning into reality, he simply tried to pour all of the combined love, confusion, hurt, strength, and weakness of his body and soul into what he gave over to John. And the doctor felt it. Sherlock had only to peek an eye once at the other man's face to see it registering deep within. He smiled against their touching lips.

"John. My John," he whispered as he broke contact and pulled the doctor into his chest.

"Yes?"

"You know I did…all that…the Fall…and everything…for you. Don't you?"

"I'm getting that now."

"I didn't know at the time. Didn't recognize it." Sherlock pulled back and looked down into the doctor's eyes, his own bright with feeling. "I couldn't lose you."

John's hand lifted and came to rest right over the other man's heart. "And I thought I _had_ lost _you_… I was so alone…I…you can't even imagine."

"There was nothing I wouldn't do to keep you safe, John. Even now. And I…" the detective looked away and then down, compressing his mouth into a thin line.

"What is it, Sherlock? No more secrets. Please."

The shining silver eyes glided back up to his own, an internal war going strong. "I'm afraid, John." He looked back to the floor. "Terrified. Of this."

Ah, that made sense then. The great bloody sociopathic detective had always spooked easily at things he couldn't reason out. And love, well, love couldn't be reasoned with even under the best of circumstances. _He must be feeling totally out of his depth here_, thought the doctor. _I'll just have to lead him then. Teach him_. It gave him a warmth deep within his chest to say that to himself about this beautifully brilliant man. He placed a light kiss against the small portion of the collar bone that lay exposed from the sleep-roughened shirt.

"You'll never leave me, will you?" The suddenness of the question slightly startled John, but he supposed he wasn't to be the only one with trust issues. _No telling how his upbringing was_.

"Mmm, no. I don't think I'd live long if I did," John replied into crook of the detective's neck.

"Good, then. I don't…think I could bear it," came the slow, hesitant response. And it seemed to John that not just a small bit of wonder carried over in the detective's tone. _Yeah, this is gonna be a job, it is._

John ducked under the arms encircling him and deftly snatched one of them, tugging the dark haired man down the hall. "C'mon. Let's have a sit down and, talk." He pushed open the detective's door and turned to pull him through, but met some resistance. He looked back and saw the fear growing in those luminous eyes, which were now staring into space. He sighed in fondness of Sherlock's naivety and inexperience in matters of the heart. These moments would probably repeat themselves much in the days to come. "Sherlock. Look at me. Do you trust me?"

The other man's eyes snapped back to the present as if he really _had_ been elsewhere. And maybe he had been_. Damn mind palace_, John groused. _What's he doing in there right now anyway? With all…__**this**__, going on_? But the fear he had seen was real enough to transfer over and give _him_ the creeps, too.

Sherlock's mind had been whirling in happiness. John accepted this; accepted _him_, where no one else ever had. He was almost blissfully unaware of his surroundings, except for John, until…

_Remember what happened to Humpty-Dumpty…._

_You! Why didn't you stay gone?!_

_All the king's horses, and all the king's men…_

_Leave me. __**Now**__!_

_He'll break you. Is breaking you. Do you even feel the wind rushing by you…_

_Stop it!_

…_as you fall?_

_You're wrong about him._

_We'll see…_

Sherlock's eyes made contact with John's again. Instantly, Moriarty's voice faded. He was here, now, with John. His John. And he heard John repeat something.

"Do you trust me?"

And that grounded him. He closed the distance to the sandy haired man as he turned the question over in his mind, stopping just short of skin-to-skin contact. The detective's eyes slid closed softly as he thought. Trust him? Did _he_ trust John Watson? What a ludicrous question. _Do I trust him?_

_With all my earthly possessions,_

_with all the combined strength in my bones and flesh, _

_with every ounce of my mental capacity, _

_with every electrical current seeking a pathway through my heart, _

_with the supreme innocence of a child, _

_with the faith of a poverty-stricken monk, _

_and with the belief of those who have beheld the face of God…_

_I have seen your heart, John Watson, and it is the purest gold, untarnished by time and strife. Not eroded away, like unto my own cold, unyielding stone. There could never be a question of trust between us. I trust you with my body. With my soul. With my heart. With my…__**everything**_.

It wasn't until he opened his eyes and saw the expression on John's face that he realized he had been speaking out loud the entire time. He coughed a bit, looking down in embarrassment at the awe spreading across his friend's countenance. And he found his chin being pulled back up by the doctor's hand. There were tears held in check within the eyes of the older man as he smiled suddenly. John's hands grabbed his own and pulled him down to sit beside him on the mattress.

"Sherlock, I… I honestly can't even _hope_ to follow that speech."

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean to..."

"No! No. It was good. _Very_ good. I just…need a moment…to absorb it all, you know?"

Sherlock gazed at John, his John, as the doctor tried to regroup his emotions. But the detective found that he quite liked the effect he was having on the other man. And so he decided to press forward a bit. After all, that kiss had been…the most _not_-boring experience he could ever claim to have had. It was…it was…all-encompassing. Magnificent. Something words could not convey to those who had never experienced it. It was wonderful. And new. And his! John wanted _him_! Above all others! And so he slid an arm behind the doctor, pulling him a bit off balance so that the other had to grab his at his waist to steady himself. He looked up quizzically at Sherlock, wondering what he was playing at. Then he smiled as those cupid's bow lips came to his once more; and he watched Sherlock fall before him, only metaphorically this time.

Their kisses grew a bit more urgent after a few minutes, though neither was quite sure what he wanted from this first exchange. And neither being experienced with men made it the kind of awkward fun that all first times are. John's hands flew up into those dark curls, running his fingers through and causing a purr of delight from Sherlock's throat. His tongue ran up and around the younger man's lips once more before dropping his mouth to that gracefully long, pale throat. He alternated light and hard pressure, sweeping his tongue across in intervals as well. Working through what got the results he was looking for. Sherlock tried once to recapture his face, only just managing to graze his ear with teeth, sending a thrill of excitement straight to the doctor's groin. But John was too experienced to be caught, and he worked his way through the detective's shirt, picking the buttons open one at a time as he went.

Sherlock became quickly frustrated, finally pushing his hands aside and ripping the fabric from his own torso, then frantically seeking John's own skin as he tore at the jumper impeding his view. It came off clumsily, as a result of their getting in each other's way. It ended with them falling sideways across the bed, chest to chest, mouth to mouth once more, with John's hands working the belt and zipper of the detective's trousers. Their shoes had been abandoned already at some point; and really, who cared?

And just as John managed to free Sherlock of his pants and briefs simultaneously, revealing a most gloriously burgeoning member, the younger man reached down and pulled the doctor back up against him for a moment to speak.

"I love you, John."

"I love you, too, Sherlock," he smiled into the throat of the other, nuzzling with gentle pressure.

"I know. I can…almost feel it, it's so tangible at this moment. And I don't want it to end."

"I feel the same. You think we would have ended up here no matter what?"

"Yes. I can't have remained _that_ stupid forever."

"Mmm, if you say so…"

"John…"

"Mm, yes?" came the reply as the kisses down the dark haired man's neck resumed. The hot press of the detective's erection against the doctor's abdomen was proving too much to ignore.

"It's…going to be…um, well…I haven't…that is…" he sighed. "I just hope you won't be too disappointed….here…"

John sat back up to look at Sherlock, questions blooming behind his eyes. It hadn't occurred to him that the other man may not have had much experience here. Oh, John knew that Sherlock 'didn't do' relationships, but he figured that the man's propensity for experimenting would have led on to _something_ anyway. But in looking at his friend, he regrouped those thoughts, _Maybe not_.

"Alright then, we'll just be sure to be careful. Go slow. Just tell me if there's anything you don't like or are uncomfortable with." He received a tense nod from the man. "And Sherlock…just how, um…far…um…?"

The silver eyes on his flashed a heat straight into John's center as the detective replied, "Everything, John. I want everything from you."

"Yes, well…I hadn't exactly prepared for this kind of thing, you know. There's certain…" he trailed off as Sherlock gestured to a drawer.

"Second drawer to the left. Water-based lubricant for various experiments. I find that this is a more worthy cause, though." And John found the admission of his being more important than an experiment to be probably the highest compliment this man before him could give. He saw the detective eyeing him, deducing him, "John, you _are_ more important. You are my _heart_, and as I am far more interested in _myself_ than any experiments, it then follows that I am more interested in you."

_Oh, the things that turn me on now_, John thought despondently…and fondly. He procured the small bottle from the drawer and resumed his post with exuberance. His mouth worked its way down the jawline and throat and halted for a bit on the chest, flicking a tongue across the nipples in order to draw out more of those delicious groans. He finished there with a long, but worshipful kiss to the area over the heart. He heard breath catch at that action and smiled to himself as he moved south, managing to flip the younger man onto his back and settle between his knees.

The abdomen spread before him, and he pressed a few light kisses and licks, biting a bit on the hip before moving on. And then, there he was. He brought up a hand and could swear he heard a mewling issue forth from the detective as he encompassed the length with his hand, rubbing his thumb up and over. Evidence of the other man's arousal smeared across the head. He bent down to taste it, curious, flicking out a tongue across it as he did. Not bad. A groan came from the north. _Oh, he liked that, did he_? And so he repeated the action, following with placing the tip within his mouth and swirling his tongue all around.

Hands shot out of nowhere to grasp in his hair, sending a hot spasm into his belly. He could feel his own erection pressing painfully into his jeans. Begging. But not yet, he told himself. Slowly. The hands in his hair guided his efforts somewhat, though they were erratic at best. _Yeah, my first blowjob did the same thing to me_, he thought, happy to be the one to give Sherlock all of his firsts. He took in more of the length, causing a full body shudder from the other. This was just too easy! _Hmm, not long at this rate, though. Better move along, or else he won't get much else from this._

He reached up and took one of the hands from his head, entwining their fingers and giving a squeeze, which was returned threefold and shaking. He finished with a gusty pull and swipe of the tongue, deftly relieving himself of the remainder of his own clothing barriers. The pants could have fallen into the fires of Hades for all he noticed at the moment. He had eyes only for one thing: the glistening, straining, and trembling form of the world's only consulting detective, about to be undone at his fingertips. He smiled as he forcefully collided with the other's mouth, and he found a hunger just as deep as his own echoed therein.

The older man pushed back for air after a moment, a look in his eyes that Sherlock thought might have him coming all on its own solely from the intensity contained within. John radiated pure sex to him at this moment. It was as if his entire world had been shaken. Nothing could have prepared him for how extremely disorienting this experience was. It really did feel like _falling_. And he didn't care! He watched as John traced hands slowly down his thighs, parting them a bit more. His hips bucked under the building pressure. "John…please." Those two words almost had the doctor undone himself!

But John kept at it, finally slicking one hand with the contents of the tube and slipping a single digit within, breaking Sherlock's world on a whole new scale. There wasn't going to be much time once he was prepared, but it would be wonderful all the same. The second and third digits disappeared within him shortly thereafter, causing a deep, rolling moan that had John practically biting his own tongue to keep from falling over himself in his eagerness. Could there be any sight more erotic than this that lay before him? He leaned forward, close to Sherlock's fluttering eyelids, "Are you ready?"

"God, please…yes…John, _now_," the other man called out immediately, straining against the air, seeking release. Seeking John.

John slid his hand over his own swollen cock, being sure to cover it well before positioning himself just before the detective's entrance. Then, ever so gently, he pressed his length through. The heat that swallowed him had him gasping for air almost immediately. And Sherlock's own intake of breath soon turned out to be a long-held one, expelled only after many seconds had passed.

John had wanted, desired, to go slowly here. To prolong it since it was the younger man's first time. But as soon as the lithe detective began to breathe once more, he reached down, grabbing John and pulling him further inside. The doctor moved deliberately, trying to calm his over-sensitized nerves. Colors swam a bit before the hiss vision. And Sherlock kept at it, moaning John's name. Begging him. Pleading with him. It was too much.

In an almost mindless action, John pulled out while drawing Sherlock up to sit facing him, then he disentangled them and flipped the other man onto his belly. Here, again, he proceeded somewhat cautiously as he eased back in. But once there, he lifted the detective up once more, so that his back was against John's chest. John's hands slipped around to firmly knead the younger man's thighs, and one hand worked its way over to grasp the pulsing length. The doctor then splayed his other hand over Sherlock's middle, keeping him in place as he began to move.

Sherlock felt the fiery warmth of John behind him, the portion of John that filled him, and the love of John around him. Everything was worth this. Everything. He reached his right hand back to grasp his lover's hip as it thrust, and the left went behind his head to touch the face of the one he held most dear. Sherlock's eyes blurred with tears as John turned his head into that hand and gently kissed his palm then leaned forward more to place a line of more urgent kisses down the back of his neck. This closeness was like being one singular entity. It was as if he had been made whole by this melding of flesh. And though he didn't want it to end, he felt the edge rising up before him, and he cried out before it.

"John! Close….so close…I love you, John…"

"God, Sherlock, fuck….I can't…"

"Don't ever leave me, John…_my_ John…stay…"

"I'm here…forever…fuck!..._always_…"

The last word had Sherlock's orgasm flying out of him as if shot from a cannon utilizing jet fuel. It spurted hot and wet over both his belly and John's caressing fingers. Speech lost all meaning as he simply gave voice to a wordless cry. His eyes had lost their ability to distinguish things momentarily it seemed, everything exploding in a haze of color before crashing back into his field again. Gravity let him go and then returned with force, causing his stomach to free fall. His nerve endings smoldered as he came down somewhat from the extended high. And then he felt John come inside him just seconds later, the older man having been finished off at the feeling of Sherlock's own explosive ending. He grasped at the dark haired man's hips, digging his fingers in deeply, panting.

They remained that way for a few moments before parting finally, neither wanting it to end. Sherlock turned to face the doctor, bringing their lips together almost shyly. Then he slid away to grab a towel at the end of the bed and tossed it John, then found his own. After, they lay back on the sheets, hearts still beating quickly from the exertion. John reached down and locked his fingers in Sherlock's, squeezing a bit so the other looked at him to see his smile. Deep blue eyes were growing heavy. And as the detective gazed at those windows to John's soul, he realized that his secondary voice was no longer present and waiting to throw out commentary. No more arguments with dead madmen. John Watson could apparently defeat even ghosts. And he lay there and appreciated the view afforded him as the other man slowly slipped into an untroubled sleep. He lay awake for a long while after, in fact, just enjoying the silence that ruled for once in his mind. Moriarty _was_ wrong. This was not weakness. This was strength. And he would gladly 'fall' like this several times over. He smiled, placing a light kiss upon John's brow, and whispered, "I owed you a fall, John Watson."

**E/N:** Finally finished. I start my new job tomorrow, too! So it's just in time. Teehee! Hope y'all enjoyed this ride. I certainly had fun. And think the boys did, too, there at the end. Sorry if it's kind of patchy or rough in this last chapter. I've not really ever written anything this graphic before, so it's a first for me. Practice will get me better, though, I promise. Thanks again for all your support. Can't wait til I get to start another one. Yay!


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